Eating Magic Mushrooms in San Jose del Pacifo

We’re on a steep dirt road carved out by truck tires that zig-zags down the mountain and eventually falls into a valley where we’ve been told there is a river. I’m on my hands and knees and my girlfriend M is doubled down, her face no more than a foot from the ground. The fauna that’s growing wild in the middle of the road has captured our attention and won’t let us go. There must be thirty different varieties of plants in a space no wider than a meter and the flowers burst with color—purple-cream, blood-red, snowflake-white, tangerine-orange. The lime-green stems curve, twist, arch, and unravel purposefully in the direction of the setting sun which leaks a buttery gold through the pine trees at our backs. The deeper we look, the more the plants reveal. One has a bulb like two rows of little red teeth with purple tongues hanging at the mouth. A tiny bug, something like a bee, is hard at work inside the mouth of another. The deeper we look, the more we are in awe. Behind us is a vista that rivals any I’ve seen. Two huge mountain ranges, blue-green in the twilight, and a valley that’s hidden by a sea of clouds floating at eye-level. But we’re not looking at the view, because in this moment these little flowers seem to contain all that is, was and ever will be.

Read More