One particularly succinct and poignant instance of a prescient vision manifesting very overtly before my eyes occurred at the edge of the mountains in my home state as I was driving the Miraculous-Beast-Shanti-Mama on a dirt road on the south side of Elk Mountain. The Snowy Range was in front of me to the east. As a bright orange-yellow October moon rose above the peaks to the fore, framed to my vision by a cracked windshield, I thought of the “medicine” that sat on the shelf on the door of the icebox in the camper on the back of the pickup truck I drove. I thought this might be an auspicious time to take some of this medicine, which consisted of a few feet of San Pedro cactus skins sliced off with just a thin layer of flesh included to ensure the majority of the mescaline contained therein would make it into the brew, then boiled down to a concentrated fluorescent green tea.
I decided such a decision ought to be ceded to divine deliberation, and thus to some sign to say it was the proper time to take this essence into my body. I knew I had to work the next day, though I also knew my employer would hardly mind if I was a little under the weather for having partaken of said medicine. I was setting up a drip irrigation system for a medicinal herb company, and my employers were, of course, all about the botanicals. As I continued to cruise around the mountain I contemplated what sign to ask, and immediately concluded it must be an animal.
Not a deer nor an elk nor a pronghorn, too common. Not a coyote, not quite appropriate. Not a cougar—I think I saw one a week before sprinting away from my headlights late in the night. Two cougar sightings in as many weeks would be too much to ask. A bird? Yes, but not one of those tiny little roadside fluttering night flyers, darting out across the beams of light preceding the potential threat of the fast moving and large projectile of an oncoming vehicle.
Then I saw it in my mind’s eye, this sign of certainty, assurance from whatever transcendent something had sway over psychedelic journeys, and specifically mescaline—perhaps “Mescalito,” as the appropriate presiding deity is called by some Native American tribes whose rites include the use of said psychedelic substance.
That’s it! A great predatory bird, with wings three or more feet in breadth, whose flight brings him or her from the left side of the truck, accelerating and then veering to directly in front of the windshield, about 15-20 feet ahead, then after leaning one way, then the other, the large owl or hawk cuts off to the right and out of view, thought I as said apparition proceeded before my inner eye.
I forgot about my deliberations and this vision and rolled a smoke with a pinch of herb mixed in, enjoying my still relaxed body, freshly soaked in the Saratoga Hobo Pool, a healing hot springs that bubbles out of the ground at somewhere between 110˚ and 120˚ Fahrenheit. I was savoring a drag from my mixed-cigarette when suddenly from the left, precisely as in my vision, a large bird with white and brown feathers flashing in the beams of the headlights soared to pass the pickup truck, then slid upon the air to directly ahead, maintaining the lead for a moment or two more, leaned to the left, then turned off to the right to disappear again into the night.
I am fairly certain this was an owl, and likely a great horned one, though from my venue I couldn’t tell for sure. Regardless, this manifestation was a perfect copy of what I envisioned several minutes before. No clearer sign than that could I have asked. After I returned to the ranch where I was working on an experimental osha root garden, I sipped a few swallows of the bitter green brew, built a fire and watched a mild show of colors and fractals and visions reformed, yet felt that the sign was indeed the greater teaching of this trip.
BUY YOUR COPY OF MEMORIES AND MUSINGS OF A POST-POSTMODERN NOMADIC MYSTIC MADMAN NOW !!!
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