Every year I saw Duffy. He lived next to the church in Sierra City. In the morning he’d put coffee and snacks out and we’d stand in a circle in his driveway and chat about whatever.
One time he drove his van to meet us up the trail, on some obscure dirt road. He liked our trail stories and we liked his old man stories. Old people have infinite stories, or they have three they tell over and over.
One year he had stories from Burning Man, and a picture album of him standing with bare breasted women, mad max style, amidst the swirling sand and drug dust. At ninety years old! Son of a gun.