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It is called Charlie’s Cafe. That’s where Ben and I had our first post-prandial nap. That’s where we crept under the boughs of a great willow tree and closed our eyes under the warm pacific sun and drifted off into undisturbed nirvana. That was where the phrase was first turned and I was first doubtful, then quizzical, then embracing, and where post-prandial became our mantra.

After waving goodbye to #6 and her little car with her large trailer, I packed myself a sandwich and some soy yogurt. I drove to Target and bought myself some Fritos and a large bottle of water. I filled the car with gas and then I drove to Mount Rainier, down the exact route that Ben and I had taken two months prior on our first day of riding. Driving down the very pathways we had ridden was like walking down the familiar trails of Ben and my childhood; each corner of the road, each bend in the pavement, each bump in the breakdown lane was an encounter with a decade of memories.

Earlier, during the month of August, I had sat down at my computer with my tape recorder and glass of warm water with a blank screen in front of me and tapped my fingers on my desk. I couldn’t remember what had happened to us. Even with an audio recording to prompt me, I could only conjure the faintest wisp of the past and provoke the fuzziest of details. The moment I turned out of the gas station, however, and began driving down that first road leaving Issaquah, recollection came flooding over me. I remembered every turn, every stop sign, every hill, every place we coasted, leaning back on our pedals and raising our faces to the sky; I remembered where we peed, where we ate, where we stopped out of breath and drank deep gulps of water; I remembered looking at the map and staring at the power lines and eating our hard-boiled eggs and smiling at our good fortune; I remembered the bridge we crossed and the railroad tracks and the two girls on mountain bikes who called to us: “Where are you going?” as we passed and I remembered yelling over my shoulder “San Francisco!” as we climbed up the hill in front of us; I remembered the awe of the evergreens, the smell in the air, the hills around us; I remembered laughter.

Past Charlie’s Café and a good hour down Route 410, I drove by the turnout where Ben broke the window of the stranded motorist and I bandaged his hand squatting on the gravel; I passed the small stump where he and I first glimpsed at Mount Rainier and, a few miles further, I passed our first campsite; I saw the log beside Route 410 where I eaten our last apple the next morning and where Ben and I had come to the fated sign, just to the right of road, indicating which services at Mount Rainier were open and which were closed.

On Labor Day Weekend: everything was open. The spot was still there, of course, where Ben and I had stood, bikes propped against the gate, and shook our heads at each other and our fists at the sky. Right over there, that post, see? That’s where our stomachs had rumbled and that’s where I threw down the Sharkie bag and turned my bike up the hill defiantly in search of a pay phone and a city diner. That’s where I shivered in my damp bike clothes and where Ben stared at the map, turning in a semi-circle to capture its hidden meaning. It was all around me, then, all the moments down all the paths we had ever traveled.

And it was then that I took a path that we had not: I turned and drove up the road to the the Sunrise Visitor Center on Mount Rainier. As I glided in the car up 3,000 vertical feet, I passed all shapes and sizes of bikers climbing up what Ben and I had neglected. I hardly recognized them, giving them less than a second’s glance. The whole concept felt foreign to me, as I down shifted, pushing the diesel engine to accelerate up another hill and around the cluster of fiercely pedaling legs. Effort was behind me now.

I took my picnic lunch from the car and walked to a table around the crest of a hill in the trees to the left of the Sunrise Chateau. I ate alone. After a failed attempt to record meaningful thoughts on my laptop, I packed everything back in the car and hiked up to the very base of Mount Rainer — eye level with the summer snow. When I had walked far enough, I wandered off the trail and snuck myself into a crook of rocks over the downside of a small hill, padding my back and cold ears from the wind against the icy shelf. I rested my head on the sleeve of Big Red. Mount Rainier was directly in front of me; near enough to touch. I closed my eyes, knowing that the first thing I would see when I opened them again would be my mountain, and let my mind drift into post-prandial familiarity.

I was afraid to open my eyes again. Mount Rainier would still be there, of course, but I would be saddened to see it this time. Sure, I had a whole life ahead of me; sure I had found #6 and we were to be together; sure I had new adventures to undertake with my friend Ben. But I would have to leave Mount Rainier behind.

As I drove away, I kept my eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, afraid the mountain would disappear completely. But it never did. You can see Mount Rainier from anywhere on a clear sunny day. On occasion, I will even catch a glimpse of it from Connecticut or New Hampshire in the shape of a cloud or in a twist of blue sky. It is my north star and, as far as I can tell, the best argument I have for Ben when positing the existence of God.

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