It was a sunny Sunday morning; the spring breeze was evident all around, the kind that says summer in on the way. My best friend called and offered to take me rock climbing, I was thrilled but wary. I waited with anticipation as the sound of his car approached; the sound was distinct in its own way because the muffler was on its last leg. He arrived with flair, no not really. The paint of his car was peeling off and the smell of the exhaust filled the air. The horrible aroma was thick and suffocating. Every time I got in his car I felt embarrassed, but with my lack of transportation, I was unable to be particular.
             The highway that we traveled had turns, twists and winded for miles. Suddenly my best friend cursed under his breath. I looked at him surprisingly and asked, "What's wrong?? He started to laugh, took his foot off the accelerator, hit the brakes, and said "Didn't you see that state trooper?? I nodded, "Well we were going 85 up this road," he said. Luckily, we were not the only cars on the road. About a mile from the turn off, we slowed down to 55 miles an hour. When we pulled off the side of the road, we were both surprised to find that there were no other cars parked there. This normally populated lot was packed with cars and with people anxious to climb the Indian Hills. Although we were both happy that there was no one else around to interrupt, there was a lingering feeling of nervousness. If anything was to happen and we required help, we would be out of luck in this isolated area. We both got out of the car, and against my better judgment, we started up the trail. The trail up was steep; about two feet wide surrounded, with scrub brush. On the way up, thoughts of not slipping on the sandy trail mixed with the bloody scraps on my legs, made my climb most uncomfortable.
             The half-mile long hike was nothing but a warm up for my best friend and I, who are avid backpackers and trail hike
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