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At one point I stopped and leaned against a mossy rock wall to let a guy go past. Instead of going by he decided to stop right in front of me to take a drink or adjust something. The next guy coming down was not going to stop, and shouldered his way through giving the guy a shove, so that his feet slipped over the cliff edge. It was sheer drop; don't remember how deep, but know it would have killed him. His feet and legs slid over the edge but he landed on his butt and his back-pack caught and dug into the dirt and rock. The pusher saw what happened, stopped, apologized and helped him up. Not sure if the over-the-edge-hiker realized that he had nearly been killed. He seemed shaken but immediately took off on down the trail.
We spent a week up there in Big Sur camped in a river glen off a broad flat valley, where all these kids had been camped. There were a bunch of young ruffians from North Beach, San Francisco up there selling acid to the college kids camped in the flat. They were next to us along the stream side. The college kids all left but these hustlers stayed. I didn't much care for them and they didn't much care for me, but the Professor liked them, especially they being from North Beach, denizens of the poetry capital of the world, which is why the Professor came to San Francisco in the first place. They all lived in a North Beach apartment with an old man they called the Wolf or some such name, and who was apparently a father figure to them.
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