It always seems impossible to get away. The routines, the obligations, the schedule conflicts. Something is always going on. When my friend Dan said he was planning an extended weekend at his parents's land in northern New Mexico, I thought it was a good idea. Dates were set, and I found a way to make it for a twenty-four hour stint from mid-Friday to mid-Saturday.

I-25 from Albuquerque to Las Vegas (New Mexico), cut off at 518 on 7th Street, ride that up to 442 at La Cueva, cruise that up to Ocate, and up reddish brown dirt roads to the land.

My brother Matt and I arrived around 3 o'clock on Friday where Dan and Scott had already been settling in for a day. When we arrived, the boys stood in front of a hay target with a pistol. We christened the moment by finishing off the loaded rounds and proceeded to set up our chunk of camp. With a loaded RV, well water plugged into its faucets, coolers stocked with booze and food, camping had never been so easy. I cleared an area nearby, lay down a tarp and set up a borrowed dome tent. With beers in our hands, the running joke became the word vestibule. It's a vestibule, it's a fly, it's a rain hood!

A couple tokes from the pipe, and we were ready for horseshoes. Heave after heave on the tilted ground full of wild grass made for some interesting shots, but the ringers, leaners and almosts still came. Tommy and Leslie came up the way, and we adjusted to two more campers. Munching on home-made jerky and marinated beef, we kicked back with more beers and classic rock on the radio. Tommy brought out his shotgun, and we all took turns aiming at cans. My first shot smoked a Tecate can. Everyone can be a good shot with a shotgun.

It was time to cook. Our one-match fire turned out to need six matches, but once it was up, it was glorious. Between the campfire and grill, we cooked up salmon, pork loin, brats, and potatoes. Dan chopped up a salad. Wine was uncorked. I had a fork on my plate, but my fingers instantly took charge of being utensils. Tommy busted out a couple old wood pipes, and I took up his offer. The tobacco was smooth, and we puffed away.

The late comers came later. First, Spring with her dog Julius. Then, Vicki, Chris and their dog Ted. More tents, more booze, more puffs and tokes. Campfire songs, dozens of one-liners, and chatter into the night. Full of everything, I was the first to retire to the tent, but I didn't puke once. Not even a hangover the next morning.

And oh my goodness, what a next morning it was! We had yogurt, granola and raisins for breakfast, but Dan brought an extra perk. Mushrooms! Not your mama's mushrooms either. Tea was made, and cups were passed around. Tommy, Leslie and Spring were newbies to such an adventure, but after a little scoffing, everyone partook. A few folks drank just the tea and not the crumbs, and a couple folks gave me their sediment at the bottom.

Not much is finer than the waves of psilocybin in nature. No walls, no boundaries, and tons of stimuli. After an early solo kick-in hike up a hill, I came back down humming. Scott, Matt and I decided to cross the creek and hike the other side. Nothing but Merry Pranksters here. We bound across the land, checking out cool rocks (that rocks!) and bizarre formations.

Scott got an itch to hike the ridge to the top, and while we followed along for a bit, we split up and went our own way after a while (the Fellowship is broken). After a contemplative stop, I bounded across the land again. With cloud cover, I stuffed my shirt in one pocket and my hat in the other. Branches rubbed and scratched me, and I couldn't have cared less. The mountain had found the man in me. A praying mantis, about an eighth of an inch big, attached itself to my side and hung out with me for the next hour, crossing one side of my chest to the other.

Eventually I made it back to the deserted base camp, fueled up on water and OJ, and decided to take a break on the hammock near the creek. The feeling was a gushing fullness, and it began to rain. Little white drops made it to me before evaporating. It was my pinnacle moment of the trip. You could try to reenact that moment for years and still never get it quite right.

After a rest, I explored again. Sunning on rocks when the sun broke through, bounding up old road trails, losing myself and not caring. When I returned to base camp again, everyone was back. I caught up with my Merry Pranksters with tokes, whiskey shots and a couple beers. Suddenly social again. Three o'clock rolled around, and I had to get back to the city. Routines, obligations and schedule conflicts awaited back in the concrete jungle. I thanked Dan for his plans and invitation. He was a true modern day Ken Kesey for the weekend. I had not had so full a twenty-four hour stretch in recent memory.

One thing is for sure. If you don't plan to get away, you never will. If Dan dares to do this again, I will stay at least twice as long.

Chris Jungle is an Eagle Scout gone awry.