Gravity hill.
Myth or legend? Or fact?
Though I have been there twice in less than twenty four hours, I am by no means an expert.
In layman's terms, it works like this:
1. Find the thing. (You are on an unmarked road surrounded by lots of corn and no people.)
2. Pull your car/truck/minivan up to the convenient graffiti that proclaims, "Start!"
3. Put car in neutral
4. Your vehicle rolls UPHILL.
Last night Nick, Brett and I (who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?) went to Gravity Hill. I was doped up on "Nite time" (the generic NyQuil) and slept through most of it. Brett saw mice, Nick saw deer and I peed in a handy plastic cup. Nick tried to urinate as well, but he heard "creepy noises" and decided to hold it.
We rolled up the hill twice, but Nick and Brett were not impressed. I went back to sleep.
The next day I set out to Gravity Hill again with Alec in tow. He funded the journey because I'm a loser with no job or money. (Sorry Alec)
The winding country roads, the golden corn, the blue sky dotted with wispy white clouds and the curious smell of overripe grapes; it was glorious.
We listened to Sondre Lerche and I drove too fast.
And gravity hill worked again!
My brakes went out as we coasted down the road, I was alternating between slamming down my e-brake and the regular fucked up ones. I managed to stop the car, which had been going fifty, and began a cautious descent just as a redneck in a truck came flying up the road at sixty.
Near death experiences are fantastic.
After we left that enchanted countryside, we explored Prosser, WA.
I was impressed. We found a record store, Jazz cafe/bars, cute houses and a vine covered high school.
Tired and sweaty, we drove home like zombies.
All in all, a great day.
I love leaving the city limits.
