Mountain Weed

To fully picture the scene, one must know that it was early afternoon in April, on top of a 1060 meter tall mountain in British Columbia. The snow was patchy and crystalized. The earth beneath was primarily jagged volcanic rock, jutting upwards periodically. A hiker needed to step carefully because of the rock's natural tendency to splinter off and fall away. Volcano-born rocks emulate the distinct sound of glass clinking together when they touched. It was foreign to hear that noise upon the mountain crest, where earth meets the bright blue sky. The sound of bongos could have reasonably been dismissed as a hallucination caused by too much exercise and caffeine.

Who are these people? Hippies. Possibly skaters? It was hard to tell from 30 feet away. Not the boy scouts of our grandfathers' generation. Nor the camo attired hunters of our fathers'.
They looked out of place, yet they were as at home on the cold, cleaved, stones as they would have been on any couch. The delicate smell of high-end marijuana floated past. The bongos resonated together in tandem as small talk filtered out of the scene. The circle of skids seemed not to have detected that an intruder had arrived, despite the rocks and snow announcing anything and everyone who couldn't fly. To turn around now would have been counter-productive. Further investigation was needed because this was unexpected and to retreat would have been a lost opportunity. Intentionally stepping on the most suspect of rocks caused a clattering similar to glass shattering. Several sleepy eyes instantly locked on the writer of this article.

A man with his entire head shaved except for bushy mutton chops leaned so far back that he was nearly laying down.
"Hiiiiiiiii. Here's another one. Come join us!" He said.

Approaching the group revealed only three of the participants could qualify as "dirty hippies", the rest looked more akin to people who hike long distances and are kindly referred to as "hiker trash". Some being barefoot and most being in some state of undress, everyone was busy crafting or cleaning some variation of an apple bong. The youngest of the group was clad in a green nylon jacket with hot pink Zumba pants. Her hair was sectioned into several small ponytails. A lovely, loose, hellraiser 'look' pulled from the dankest corner of Instagram. She was seated in front of a large rock and with both hands, she carefully sliced and diced a mix of dried kinnikinnick leaves with a dark, moist, cannabis flower.

Taking a seat in the circle, which surrounded a small campfire, and having been presented with an apple and a chopstick; it wasn't clear how the evening was going to progress.