During our last week, Don drove us to a rock climbing place near New Paltz, N.Y., where he introduced us to a guy named Tray who knew about climbing. Tray, as I recall, was very strong and didn't wear underwear, and his girlfriend, who lived with him in the tent next to ours, often didn't wear anything at all. Every now and then the screen door would unzip and Tray or his girlfriend would emerge from a cloud of smoke that didn't smell at all like my father's cigarettes.
Read the rest of Mark Slouka's essay here.
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