"Is that coral?" asks the girl on my left.

"What?"

"Your earring. Is it coral?"

I nod.

"I like it. Is it new?"

"Nah, I've had it a few years now." The music is almost too loud to talk.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Jane."

"Glad to know you."

"So why'd you do it?"

"Sorry, you lost me there."

"Your ear. Why did you pierce your ear?"

"Long story."

"I'll listen." She drinks the last of her beer.

"Tell you what. You get us some beers and I'll tell you about this coral earring."

Cold surrounds me. My stomach jerks in a spasm as I try to gasp for air. My ears and fingers are stabbed by tiny needles. My face feels burnt. When I open my eyes I can only see a few feet of murky green. There are small long air masses pushing by my face.

I roll over, belly up, arcing toward the surface. A shimmering line gray-white walls me from warmth. My stomach jerks again as I near the wall. My mind flies; thoughts of cramps and fears, of beauty and loves, and of the cold, all in an instant. I wonder if death isn't like this, instant forever.

I crash into the wall and it falls away. Warmth slaps me as the ice melts down my face and ears.

"God this is cold!"

"Okay Gary, you're next. Dive in," says Greg. His long blond hair is plastered to his neck and shoulders. Water beads still hang in his beard.

"Yeah," I yell. "No point in my dying alone." I can feel the start of a foot cramp. I've had those before; it's the legs and stomach that I'm worried about.

Gary is still stalling, "I don't think this is a good idea. I'm in about as far as I want to go.

"You're only knee deep," chuckles Mike from his perch on the log we are using as table and towel rack.

"I know, but my toes are numb. Look at my legs, they're red."

"Hell, I can't feel my body." I try to laugh.

"Come on Gary. Be a man," teases Mike.

I make my way back to the safety of the rocks and log. As I reach footing, I find that the feet I thought had no feeling left in them are more sensitive than they have ever been. I hobble toward shore and feel warmth coming back. The morning that I thought cool is nothing when compared to the water, which slowly recedes down my legs the closer, I get to shore.

"You know, Gary, you'll rinse much faster if you just dive in." Greg is trying logic. "All that splashing water on yourself is like some kind of prolonged torture. That's why I jumped in."

Gary's handlebar mustache seems to twitch in anticipation of the cold. He runs his hands over his hair. His smile, usually bordering on knowing skepticism and fascinated innocence, is at this moment communicating severe doubt that total submergence is the best method of body rinsing.

"I think I'd rather rinse this way." Gary continues to splash water on himself.

The sun warms my body as I move slowly toward the log and my towel. A sharp point at the center of my foot almost sends me to a knee-breaking fall. The ice pulls at my calves. "Why the hell don't they have sand beaches up here?"

Greg laughs and makes some remark about tourists that I don't catch. He has an easy-going style that belongs to tall blond hippies. His laughter rolls like a warm spring breeze. In my mind he is all of the things a flower child is; gold wire-rim glasses, long hair and beard, slow soft speech, a mood that is flowing like water and solid like earth. Maybe I think all hippies should be like Greg.

The towel feels good as it rides across cold, raw skin. I can smell the smoke of our fire in the fabric mingled with the smells of soil and algae that the water carries. I shake my head and water drops fly to make cold spots on the guys.

"Hey, knock it off, you dog." Mike is trying to dodge the mini-shower without much luck. When we left to come out here I knew Mike the least of all. I had played Frisbee with him, and went to some of the same parties. But we never really talked much one to one. I knew that he had an artificial leg, I knew that he enjoyed cars, and I knew that he worked in his dad's store.

Since the start of the trip I felt that I'd come to know him a little more, by watching and talking. He seems to be a busy person, always ready to go see a friend, take a walk with the dog, or try something new. His joys seem honest, pure, and abundant. Nothing is simply good; it is the best that has ever been. My greatest wonder is at the drive it must take to go hiking on an artificial leg.

The four of us finish drying and dressing ourselves on the log. I can smell the oil of my skin as the sun beats down on us.

"Let's head along the lake and work our way up to that glacier. I want to walk on some ice and snow," says Gary.

"Gary, we can do that at home in a month or so," I say.

"But this is a glacier."

"Let's get some shots here on the log," says Mike.

"You guys stay there and I'11 get my camera."

"How are we all going to be in the shot?" I ask.

"I've got a time delay. You push the button and in a few seconds, click!"

"Sounds like ghosts to me.

We set up for the picture, then take another to be sure one of them turns out.

"You know this trip's been a blast," says Mike. "Isn't it great?"

"Yeah, we just froze our butts in this stupid green lake," I say.

"Right. Isn't it great? We've got to do something to commemorate this trip. I think we should get our ears pierced."

"Whoa now, I'm not sure about that idea," says Gary, shaking his head.

We pick up some of the light daypacks and start down the trail. No one had a better idea, so we head toward the east end of the lake, and maybe on to the glacier. As we walk we discuss Mike's notion of how best to commemorate this trip. Greg and I discover that we both have been thinking about having an ear pierced. This opportunity seems as good as any. "We could get a tattoo," I tease.

"Yeah," joins Greg. "One that says Mother."

"No, that's okay.

"But Gary, what better way to remember this trip?" asks Mike.

"Oh, I think I'11 remember this trip," says Gary.

"Me too, in the pneumonia ward," I laugh.

"I know why you guys like this idea so well, it's because your hair is so long and it won't show anyway."

"Good point!" I shout.

Something, up the hill on our right, scurries through the brush. I can't see any movement; I only hear the sounds of it passing.

"You guys hear that? Hope it's small," I said.

"You know, killer bees are small," Greg points out.

Mike stops and looks back at Greg and me. "Which ear do we pierce?"

"I don't know, I've seen both sides done." explains Greg. "I think it's the left ear, though."

"Well, one ear means you're gay," muses Mike.

"Oh, that's great. Every one will think I'm gay. I don't suppose anyone knows for sure which ear to do." Gary corners Mike and tries to convince him that this idea is dumb at best.

I look at Greg and say, "I think we've got him." Then to Gary, "Don't worry, Gary, I've got it all figured out. An earring in your right ear means you're gay, and one in your left means you're a dope addict. Simple."

Gary moans, "Why do I even know you guys?"

"Then again, maybe it's the other way around." I wink at Mike.

The escalator spills us out on the floor, and we weave our way through thickets of women's wear growing on round racks of chrome. We fan out, each of the four of us on his own path to the alcove under the sign "Salon."

"May I help you?"

"Yes," smiles Mike. "We would like to get our ears pierced. Do you do that here?"

The girl at the counter hesitates a moment as she looks us over. I am sure she thinks she has missed something. A few years ago, she would have thought of Candid Camera, but today she is unsure what to make of these four bearded men in blue jeans and flannel shirts.

Greg digs around in his shirt pocket. "How much will it cost? We have earrings." He presents a small box to the girl. She is wearing a nametag that says "Mary.

"I ah… wait a minute. We can't use these earrings," says Mary as she looks over our selected adornments. "We use a gun and you have to use the earrings that fit in it."

I lean over to Mike. "I wonder what caliber they are?"

"Yeah, maybe they draw a target and shoot."

"Well, in fact that's sort of what we do," says Mary. Mike and I didn't think she had been listening to us. "What we do is draw a small dot to center the gun on, She continues. "It only costs fifteen dollars a pair, which includes the earrings."

Mary seems a little uneasy, and I'm starting to wonder if we aren't out of place. But Gary pushes right ahead.

"We only want to have one ear pierced each. Is that alright?"

"Oh, I don't think we could break up the sets."

"But if two of us went together on a style, then that would be two ears, and two earrings. We could share the cost that way," suggests Greg.

"Just a moment." Mary walks over to a man in the back. He is washing a woman's hair. He nods as Mary talks to him, then she comes back to us smiling. "The boss says okay, two ears, one price. Who's first?"

We have a quick huddle and decide to do the left ear. Mike says he wants to go first, which is fine with me. Mary shows us four types of earrings that will fit into the gun. It is easy to pick; three of the styles are too feminine. The one we choose is a little gold post with a coral insert.

Mary is trying to sell us some disinfectant while she does Mike and Greg. "We don't like peroxide because it kills skin tissue." Bingo, another sale.

Gary sits down in the chair. And I wonder if he'll ever get comfortable. He rolls one shoulder, then the other. Mary seems undaunted as she draws a black dot on his ear lobe. She then turns his head side to side until she is satisfied the dot is centered. Then grabs the gun, which looks like a space age stapler, and snap! "All done. Next."

That is me. I think of all the dentist chairs I've been in when I wore braces in high school. And of the few times that I had my hair done at the Main Event on West Street in Ames, Iowa. My mom usually cut my hair in the kitchen with the smells of home. But here the smell of shampoo lingers in the air, beaten down by the pungent smell of the perming lotions. Mary's perfume is interesting, although a little stronger than I like. She has to lean across me, and she feels warm. From the comer of my eye I see the black felt marker hovering, searching for the right spot. It finds the spot and I feel the light pressure as the mark is placed. Mary moves my head left and right. Like an artist, she judges the placement of the mark. "Looks good." She mutters to me, our little secret. She smiles as she picks up the earring gun. Mary places it on my ear, lining up her artwork with the machine. Snap! echoes through my head. I feel a slight tug. Snap! again and someone gasps. "Oh my." She said it softly. I don't think I was supposed to hear her. She tugs on my ear one more time.

I quietly ask, "Is something wrong?" I want to comfort the artist.

"It's stuck," she says apologetically.

"Does it look good? Maybe I'11 buy it." I am acting brave for both of us.

Mary misses my joke because she is busy trying to prevent pain, and waving her boss over to help her. From the corner of my eye I see my three friends leaning on the counter, laughing.

"What's the problem, Mary?" asks her supervisor. "The gun's stuck."

I feel the gun move back and forth a bit. "This gun was made for smaller ears." I think that remark was to me. A kind of, 'It's your fault.'

"I'd make him buy the gun," says Mike.

"No, I think we'll keep it here," says the supervisor without looking up from my ear.

I hear one more snap! and feel one last tug as the thing slide free. Mary's boss hands her the gun and walks back across the room to the woman in the far chair.

"I'm sorry about that," says Mary.

"That's okay, I'm into pain."

We all throw ten bucks on the counter, and Mary rings up the charge. I hear her count out the change while I'm rubbing my ear to see if it's hurt. It's okay, but I play with the earring a little. Gary and Mike are playing with their ears too.

"Now you guys be sure to turn those earrings a couple times a day, and clean them once a day. Leave them in for six weeks or so."

We all nod and say that we will.

"If you guys come to town, stop in," says Mary, catching my eye.

I notice that the music has stopped and more people than just Jane are listening to me.

"I always tell people I got my ear pierced because of camaraderie. But maybe it's a symbol of the freedom that people talk about in my bike magazines. Or maybe it's a longing for a more exciting time: a time of danger, of dreams, and of fair maidens."

I take a sip of my beer, Jane smiles, and someone across the room groans, "God, he's full of crap."

Jane taps my hand and nods toward the back door. As we pass the refrigerator I ask if she wants another beer. She doesn't; neither do I.

"I think I understand why you did it."

"Good. I don't."

"Oh yes you do. Let's go for a ride." She's looking at my Harley.

"Okay."

The motor fires on the second kick. Jane climbs on the back and grabs my waist with her knees. The bike jerks when I push it in gear. It always does. Sometimes I wonder if it's eager for the road.

The trees look surrealistic in the night washed gray by the near full moon. At the stop sign I turn left into the night. The wind smells fresh and reminds me of the mountains. We swing through the S curve a little faster than we should, but I love to feel the force as I lean into the turns. I slow for the corner. "You okay back there?"

"Yes. It's great."

Jane feels warm against my back. Her head is on my shoulder. I think of my hiking friends one more time and say, "Hey. I feel like walkin' around a lake. You want to go to Hickory Grove?"