ternoon— a summer shower of fat rain drops and hail stones that were soaked up by the dusty road immediately. It was also sucked up by my cotton shirt and pants, leading to a chill later in the evening.
I very quickly found the Montana kitchen and“ N”, who directed me to other Hot Springs residents. I set up my tent near some friends. I should have crawled in for a nap, but the dinner bell rang at the kitchen. I had to climb up to the bike to get more stuff, such as my mess kit, wine, water and damp motorcycle jacket and, of course, I forgot my ear plugs. By the time I descended the mountain again, there were a hundred people in line, or at least it seemed like it. I ran into“ L” who recommended that I try the mushroom sauce that featured fresh morels that he found foraging in the forest.
When I reached the front of the line, I was confronted with a foot operated water pump and the admonition to wash my hands before eating. Since it was empty, I ignored it and proceeded to the lady parceling out pasta. She asked if I had washed my hands so I lied to her. My metal army mess tin had two compartments separated by ridged divider. The pasta princess plopped a spoon full of noodles into the center of the tin so half went into each. The next lady put a dab of red sauce into one half of the tin so I held it out to the mushroom momma who put a dollop of morel cream sauce in the other side. Then she asked if I was feeding two. When I said no, she called me a double dipper and dismissed me. Heck, what little I had on the plate would barely nourish a waif. But it did taste good. I ate a banana for desert and nibbled on some bread that was gifted to me on the road. I learned long ago to never turn down free food. I ran into“ M” from Missoula and she loaned me her child’ s drinking cup and a cork screw. Alcohol is forbidden in main camp, so I snuck into my tent to open the wine. I sipped a glass while I changed out of my shorts and sandals. It was only 8 p. m. but the night’ s chill was coming on. Suitably attired in damp jeans, damp flannel shirt, damp socks and boots, I ventured forth to see what there was to see. I went down the trail past the Jesus camp and the Buddhist meditation tent to the Kiddie Village. Along the trail, there were musicians sitting in the dirt playing blues.
I found a bridge across one of the five little streams that ran through the main camp. On the other side was a bridge troll who demanded a“ joke for a toke.” I was a little baffled as to what was asked of me, so I asked“ What sort of joke?” The shaggy-haired 20-something white boy replied,“ Oh anything, make it a racist joke.” I raked my brain for something, since every joke I knew had vaporized from my memory. I came up with a lame joke from the Civil Rights era. That elicited more racist jokes from the bridge circle. Rewarded with a toke for my joke, I thanked them and wandered away.
I found the fire pit for the main camp. It was on a high spot in the meadow in the center of the third little valley. The selfanointed fire warden excavated a heart-shaped hole that was about 15 feet across and one foot deep. He dug for 18 hours before some others offered to help. He used the rocks he uncovered to make a fire ring that was around 8 feet in diameter. The dirt was mounded off to the side to form benches. The rather grizzled old man said the heart was three degrees off from true east“ just to piss off the high holies.” Younger men were chopping up dead fall trees into 8 foot logs for the fire. The ax seemed to be dull because mighty whacks produced small chips. The log pile was pitiful by biker standards since bikers use chainsaws and pickup trucks while the Rainbows use people power for everything. The old man lit the fire at sunset. It was a hippie fire with small twigs and bark at first and then sticks and wood scraps later. Dozens of people huddled around it, soaking up the feeble heat it threw off. I felt like tossing in a real log to get the flames up to eye level, but restrained myself. It was his fire and his labor to build it.
A covey of drummers started banging away a rhythm, and a saxophone joined in occasionally. A bare chested fellow blew into his didgeridoo offering a low moaning accent to the shrill sax. The temperature was becoming uncomfortably nippy but two young women wearing unbuttoned vests swayed alluringly for a short while, then disappearing. Later a young lady, judged by me to be slightly more than 18 years old came to the fire. Her face and torso were painted in green, blue, brown and black patterns. She took her top off and danced to the drums with a flock of shirtless dreadlocked young men. Before it became completely stygian dark, I left the fire so that I could walk through the sage without toppling in some leg or ankle snapping manner.
I found the bridge again. The troll was replaced by a very stout, barrel-shaped young lady with a switchblade knife. She had bright red-dyed hair and wore a pink tank top.“ Threatened” with the knife, I offered up a joke. This brought on another toke and a plethora of Rainbow jokes, mostly dealing with Rainbow cleanliness, honesty, and morality, or rather the lack thereof.
The Rainbow family digs pit latrines for the gathering. They were well marked and fairly well attended. I tried using one on Thursday morning but the line was too long. I repressed the desire to go and so I did not actually see one. One Rainbow joke was“ How can you tell if a Rainbow has been in your bathroom? " If you see foot prints on the toilet seat.” Apparently the latrines were the squat-over-a-hole kind.
I returned up the well-marked but unlit path, basically following other people who may or may not have been illuminated. While on the path, someone yelled out“ Horses! Horses on the trail”. A half dozen horsed thundered down the path, adroitly avoiding Rainbows who jumped out of the way. We were in a“ free range livestock” area that was adjacent to private property, so it sort of made sense that there would be horses on the property. We later assumed that some prankster let the horse out of a corral and chased them down the hill through the camp. There was a second horse encounter later that night.
I found my yellow tent and when I found I had packed my my trusty bicycle lamp with three triple A batteries and a halogen beam. I was now three glasses into the wine and it was 10 p. m. After pissing on a tree away from the tents, I went to the Gong Show up the hill from the Kiddie Camp.
That camp had a stage and curtained back stage. The show had started at 8 or so and was really rocking when I arrived. It consisted of an MC, three judges, a saxophonist and a gong. Some of the now 10,000 campers had volunteered to entertain a carnivorous crowd. The MC announced one fellow as“ another hippie with a guitar” and led some quaking young singer-song writer onto the stage. After explaining that this was his first public performance, he belted out a ballad about his broken heart. The guitar was not amplified, nor was his wavering voice, so only the first three rows could hear him. After a stanza or The West Old & New Page 12