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