Walking Mount Vexer  I'm at Mount Vexer in New South Wales. I'm inside a shelter with others. We're going to walk to the summit today. A few of us venture outside. I return shortly, to more adequately prepare myself for the walk. It's a very cold, clear day. I estimate it's close to 0 degrees Fahrenheit. I start to pull on a few layers of clothing. I put on polypropylene bottoms, my gray wool socks with the red stripe, and my old Vasque hiking boots. I may put another layer on my legs. I wear a new red mountaineering parka that my brother Wally has just bought for me. I have me green wool hat and my black and maroon gloves. On my back is my backpack containing my yak's wool sweater. I have a pink hip pouch that I fasten around my waist. I'm inside. My friend Reed Maxwell is there. I toss him a pair of white and red striped polypropylene bottoms. Our friend Fiona Ulness is there. She tells me I look like a guy that is pictured on a milk jug. I look at some jugs, but do not see or agree with her. Our classmates Grace Hanley and Jill Foster are there. I walk outside. There is frost on everything. I seem to be on the southeast end of the lake. I need to walk north, then west, to the summit. My jacket is fully zipped and secured. I feel good: strong, prepared, and ready to go. Reed is next to me. I find I have a beer in my waist pouch. Reed takes a gulp of it. A woman yells at us for having beer. Reed pours it out of the clear glass bottle onto the ground. I put the empty bottle back in my pouch where there is another full beer bottle. A large group of kids walks towards us from out right, down by the lake. They're leaving the area, and herd by us. I walk, and others follow me. We go through a forest with tall trees and little undergrowth. There are two forest service men chopping wood in the crisp air. They're fully dressed for the cold. As I pass them on their right one of them says to me in a storm trooper-like voice, "Fan out." I obey his direction and branch off the path to my left. He tells the others as they approach and they fan out as well. We reach an area that is a new track, all laid out. Two by fours bound it on each side, with fill in the middle. We're instructed to trample over the new portions of the track to pack them down. We do. We trample through rice, which quickly spreads from our feet to outside the bounded track. We also walk through mud. My friend Norman Noman and classmate Geoff Hamilton are among the group. I'm then in a group of people where a contest is occurring. There are some big, strong, powerful men there. It's possible that one could get hurt or killed. One of the big men seems to falter at his opportunity: he could, but doesn't throw a spear or dart a long distance. A man blows a dart at me. The contest involved direct physical impacts between two people. There is a large man with a mask. I get shot at twice from close range. Both four-inch darts pierce the skin of my chest, slightly to the right of my sternum. They do not penetrate farther, and I feel no pain. I laugh at the event. My body seems to be very, very strong, like it is impenetrable. It is then my turn. There is a bald man there, wearing a hooded cloak. I go easy on him, not really knowing or thinking of any good feats of punishments to impose on him. I spit a mouthful of a slurpee drink through a straw onto his head. He is like Spock from Star Trek. This is a silly and insignificant feat. It is embarrassing more to me for it's lack of aggression, but I don't want to really hurt the man.