THURSDAY 8:30pm

The pickup guzzled through the starless canyon fast and determined. No dark curve or hungry pothole knocked it off course. The windows were rolled down and my Stetson wanted to lasso the breeze and hitch it to the dusty mountains where it belonged tumbling amongst the brush. But no. The hat wasn’t really mine. I was merely its caretaker. And a caring person had to draw the line between giving a hat its fix, however noble it may be, and preserving it for future return to its rightful owner.

Hat secure between my clasp I turned to Jason, my ride to the Hollywood Greyhound, and inquired about the stove’s proper usage, just in case I had gotten it wrong on the first try. Unlike him, whose backpacking experiences were unequalled by any other, this was my virgin voyage and a little advice would help in keeping me on course.

“First you want to preheat it,” Jason explained. “Let gas seep into the priming cup and turn the valve off.” So far so good. “Use a match or a lighter and ignite the fuel. Fire will be going everywhere for about two minutes. Once the flame dies down into a weak blue color, open the valve as much as you can and let her rip. It’s kind of like an art form and may take a couple of tries before you get it right.”

“Blue? The flame was yellow when I tried it.”

“No! You absolutely do not want the yellow flame. It could drop into the gas tank and set you on fire. My friend lost his eyebrow that way. It grew back, but all crooked.”

I ran a trembling hand down my face to make sure it was still there. To think, one tiny error in judgment could have lit the entire trip aflame. Oh, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. Raw or extra crispy I was getting my journal signed.

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Jason said, “It happens very rarely.”

“Jason? Do you think I’ll look like a weirdo walking all over the bay area with this giant backpack and funny hat?”

“Well Seth, that all depends on your definition of weirdo.”