Bear Mountain

Yesterday, a friend and I went upstate to Bear Mountain. I knew of Bear Mountain from On The Road by Jack Kerouac. I just remember that when Sal first sets out for Denver from New York City, he takes a bus to Bear Mountain but then realizes there are no connections or any other ways west so he has to go right back to New York and he's all bitter about the wasted trip. I don't even know why that stuck with me, but it did.

It was a beautiful day and we brought wine and food. The lake was pretty, but Bear Mountain is something of a misnomer. I feel like maybe it should be Bear Bunny Slope.

We hiked around the lake and had our picnic, and I was probably an annoying guest because I was pretty terrified of ticks the entire time, lulz. The white wine made us lazy so we took a nap on our blanket. I woke up and just laid on my back and was watching the clouds go by when this FLYING MONSTER started getting close. It looked maybe like a flying ant or wasp, if they were black and as thick as a finger and as long as my entire hand. I told myself to stay calm and it would just fly near and then away, but it was coming in for the landing. I didn't move. But it was definitely going to land on my knee or something, so that's when I screamed bloody murder and started thrashing and my friend woke up and freaked out and probably thought I was being bloodily murdered and we didn't really sleep much again after that. At least no one spilled their wine.

For the way back, my friend insisted that I drive. He just bought a new BMW and wanted me to try it out. I really hate driving friends' cars with them in it, because they all turn into passenger-side demons, and with my sterling driving record, I really resent the criticism. And no offense, but BMW drivers are probably in a class all their own. He kept insisting, so I said okay. It wasn't so bad, and the car really did drive well. I got a few of those "Put the pedal to the metal! ...okay slow down now." You win some you lose some.