On my way up the mountain for the last time, I thought to myself, and to anyone else who might be listening in on my thoughts: If you really exist, if there are really inter/multidimensional beings that live here on Mt. Shasta, can you please show yourself, or show me the door to your world, in one of my photographs before I leave the mountain?
“You have to go to Mt. Shasta,” said the voice in my head.
This was not a dreaming.
Prime directives given before 6am are not easily processed. At least not in this dimension. They usually take a bit of deciphering and contemplation. But this particular directive was pretty damn clear. I sat up in bed and wiped my eyes, hanks of hair hanging in my face, my blankets twisted all around me. Untwisting them, I stifled a big yawn.
Yesterday I got in the car and started driving. I’m continuing my exploration of the Mt. Shasta area this week and really wanted to get into the back roads. The day before I had gone to Weed (named after founder Alber Weed, not the plant) and asked around about the mountain, the countryside, and what people do in these parts. But today I didn’t ask any questions and I just started driving. Had a perfect day for it too.