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Ron Huber Travelogue Summer 1980 (Transcribed from paper diary.) June 27 to August 5, 1980. July 16, 1980 Nineteen days on the road. I'll attempt to summarize the events that occurred during that time and supply details later, in an attempt to retain as much memory as possible. Seated in a Big Boy restaurant, I shall, as Wordsworth would have it, "recollect in tranquility". A brief itinerary up to today would be useful at this point; June 27th Left Maryland.
To the Rainbow Festival. June 27, 1980. I left Maryland in a light depression: relationship with my family was none too good. Dael Dillman has generously allowed me to spend the night in his apartment in Takoma Park, Md. He and I smoked a few bowls of hash the night of June 26th from Joe's stash, and listened to his scratchy collection of avante garde LPs. The next morning I awakened feeling mildly thick-headed from the last night's excess. Dael wandered out blearily rubbing his eyes in response to the music I'd started up. We sat about dazedly for a short while, then headed for a Citizen's Bank of Maryland, where I withdrew all but $5 from my account. Dael then took me to the New Hampshire exit on the Beltway and we parted. I promised to write. Now finally on the road. A dharma bum indeed! It was about noon, hot and humid. After about half and hour I was picked up by a young man who turned out to be an economist. We spoke in general terms about the economy. He was none too happy about the present condition of the nation, and admitted to being a "radical economist." After I told him of my destination, he looked wistful and said he'd like to go, but.... the ties that bind. He felt that his skills and training were such that he relied on the system he professed a disdain for. We parted on good terms at an exit just past Rte 270. I stood there on the exit, fruitlessly waving my thumb. Spied something shiny; it was a lady's ring set with a faceted bit of red glass. Brought to mind Shiva's third eye... I tucked it in my pocket. Finally a VW Convertible bug pulled up, it's back seat crammed with packages. Cautioning me to put my pack in gently, the driver, an 18 or 19 year old fellow, helped me put it in and we took off.,,,,,, He was going to Manassas, Va, and after a few moments I ascertained that Manassas was about ten miles up Rte 66, the route I was planning to take. He was going there to pick up a replacement part for a copying machine, a very delicate bulb of some kind that couldn't be entrusted to a parcel service. He was proud of his vehicle, (very handsome it was, too) and the ride passed quickly. He dropped me off and I sat on the rim of my pack, waiting..... I was near a service station and a van pulled up and offered a ride: accepted immediately. He was a big brawny fellow, about 30 years old. The inside of the van was crammed with machine parts. We drove along a side road till we found a McD's and both got cokes. Back out on the road, he lit up a joint and I sank into stonedness again. He was going to Charlottesville, Va. using a route somewhat different from the one I'd planned (down Rte 29 rather than the 29/211 to 81 connection I'd been considering) but it would end up quite close to the Rainbow Festival. So off we went through the rolling Virginia foothills, listening to his collection of rock tapes.., He was a machine installer, everything from conveyor belts in Pepsicola plants to giant milk churns for cheese companies, traveling all over the eastern United States. Two thirds of the way down, we stopped for gas and I bought a pair of poorly made lightly tinted sunglasses for 7 bucks, which I promptly lost later that night. Finally I was dropped off near the Rte 64 interchange, which would take me into West Virginia. He cautioned me about the police, then drove off. Walked over to the interstate, feeling a bit strange with my backpack amid the small town Virginians. After ten to twenty minutes, a Datsun pickup truck loaded with baskets of fruit and two packs pulled over. The driver, young, bearded and longhaired, greeted me and asked my destination. "Headed for a rainbow" Was my reply and he said that he was bound there as well. Apologizing for making me tuck myself in among the supplies in back, (there was a woman in front with him), he got back in and we roared off. He'd invited me to partake of as much fruit as I wanted, so I munched a peach and drowsily watched clouds go past. After a brief mixup on the roads we arrived at a service station somewhere in West Virginia. A brightly painted bus emblazoned "Wood Instruments" pulled up. They too were seeking the Rainbow Gathering and were from California. After a hurried map consultation, we left and finally arrived in Darlington. There was a festive air at the western side of town. About 50 Rainbowers were there, some blowing hundreds of soap bubbles across the busy thorofare, while others juggled, sang, and carried on, An exhausted looking young woman told us to park nearby and receive directions before proceeding on. We did so and found there were no maps to be had. Several folks offered slightly different versions of how to arrive at the festival site. We finally arrived at a reasonable idea of the directions and left, waving at the hippies. The road was small and winding and it quickly grew dark. I was starting to ache from the jouncing of the rough road. At the Tea Creek camp area, we made a wrong turn and went down a rutted dirt road ten miles before a carful of locals, also looking for the site, told us it was the wrong way. Turned around, (it was now drizzling). I was crammed in front with the driver and other passenger. Driving back out of the cul-de-sac we met several more carloads of Rainbowers, similarly confused as to the correction directions. We stopped, held a brief smoke-in and a group circle OK chant, (the locals were rather taken aback by this), and set off again for the festival. Finally arrived! It was after midnight. The park road immediately around the trail head was thronged with Rainbowers, Park Rangers and State Police. The road was blocked off. We were halted by a young freak, who started telling us we had to park 12 miles away and be shuttled in. Hearing this, the young woman in the truck groaned "Oh shit", but the driver explained that he was carrying food supplies for the kitchen and we were grudgingly allowed to pass through to the official parking lot. On the way, we were given a cursory lookover by a state policemen. Then we stopped at the parking lot and I wished them a happy week before taking to the trail. The rain had stopped. I picked my way along the trail, assisted by a pleasant fellow from the welcoming committee. We crossed two broad shallow streams on stepping stones. Just after the second one, a tent appeared and an enthusiastic crowd greeted us effusively with "Welcome Home!" and plenty of hugs. They were planning to give me and several other newcomers a lecture on what to expect, but feeling weary, I slipped away down the trail about a quarter mile, found a spot, free of tents, set up a simple lean-to and sacked out, lulled to sleep by the throbbing of drums in the distance..... Morning June 28, 1980 I amble down to the main meadow, passing the information booth, HASH tent and Tipi Circle. Large amounts of friendly freaks were milling about, smoking cannabis, dancing, singing, OM-ing and the like. A large number of people were in the buff, soaking up the abundant sunshine.... The following days were somewhat of a blur of primeval dance, hashish and celebration. At first, feeling rather in need of solitude, I filled my two-quart canteens with fresh spring water, packed two peanut butter sandwiches and a couple of tea bags into my mini-cookpots and set off for the mountain top to the east of the Three Forks Valley where the festival was taking place. I decided to take the long ridge extending north of camp rather than the steep east face. To reach the foot of the northern ridge, I followed the brook north of camp down to where it flowed out of the valley between the east and west mountains that surrounded and walled the valley, then waded across it and began to climb slowly upwards through thick brush and saplings. The grade suddenly became very steep; I had to scramble on all fours, clinging to loosely rooted saplings and boulders which occasionally slipped loose and crashed down the mountain side. . The steep climb ended abruptly at the side of a road, to my surprise. I loped across and entered a more mature forest of pine and oak. One hundred yards off there was a crash as a white tailed deer, surprised while dozing, leapt to its feet and made off. The sun was higher in the sky, burning away the last vestiges of the morning mist. It was a fairly easy climb, and the silence of the pines gave the forest a cathedral-like silence. It felt like Mount Kailas, Shiva's abode in the Himalayas, and I gave a silent prayer of love to Kim as I climbed. The wind died away. A cloud of gnats discovered me and began drinking my sweat; they escorted me jovially to the top. Halfway up, I discovered a long abandoned logging road, liberally overgrown with stinging nettles. I followed it for some time, until it quartered away to the far side of the mountain and began to descend. Seeing the summit not too distant above me, I struck straight up. It was a tough climb, and I halted several times to swat at my loyal escorts. Finally the top! I staggered around till I found a fallen tree and sat back, enjoying the cool breeze that crossed the summit. To my surprise, the mountain, which appeared to be conical from the valley, had a flat summit which covered about five acres. It was covered with a splendid climax forest of hoary old pine, some 30 feet in circumference, with the lowest branches some 40 feet off the ground. I ate lunch and brewed some tea, savoring the quiet and majesty of the scenery, then headed back down to camp, arriving just before dinner. At dinner, I met Nick, a migratory youth from Oregon; he was lacking a plate, so I loaned him one of my pans. Nick traveled around Washington, Oregon and Northern California, picking fruit and planting trees in different seasons. He avoided all but the smallest towns, preferring the simplicity of rural life to the calculated scheming of urban areas. He'd had a somewhat spotty past and had served several months in jail for auto theft and other petty crimes, but was overall a decent and honest person. We discovered that he had a fine camping spot, but no tarp, while I had a tarp and a relatively noisy and heavily trafficked area, so I moved my gear over to his site (underneath the spreading boughs of a spiny oak) and rigged the tarp to accommodate both of us against the unpredictable West Virginia weather. We were both doing volunteer work, (Nick digging latrines while I entertained children at Kid Village, a day care center) so we rarely met before dinner time, when we'd wander over to the council area and eat the vegetarian communal meal before entering the night's festivities of group singing, cannabis consumption and general merry-making. Then I heard about the Krishnas having set up a free supper every night. At first I was quite leery of them, due to my earlier disastrous experience with them in Potomac Maryland. I regaled Nick with stories of their more maniacal acts that night, when they drowned my electroencephalograph, and he bristled with dislike of them. The next evening, however, I persuaded both myself and Nick to go to their dinner. Nick agreed to go only reluctantly, but I could read the fascinated disgust they held for them in his eyes. We went, and they turned out surprisingly innocuous. After chanting their mantra for a half hour, they performed a brief skit, "The Age of Kali" , which gently reproached meat eating, drug abuse and sexual license, then served a filling repast of halavah (a fluffy sweet millet concoction), puris (flat unleavened wheat cakes, deep-fried in oil), curried rice, and a vegetable stew, all washed down with weak lemonade. Afterwards, we staggered away to the nightly bacchanalia, where at a cry of "Ron! Hey, Ron!" I turned around and met Joe Tibault, freshly arrived from DC. We greeted each other profusely and ambled over to his campsite where after a leisurely bowl of Red Lebanese, he told me how good ol' Dael was acting rather moody and dejected. I gave him a brief tour of the site, and we resolved to climb the mountain to the west of camp the next day. (We did, but separately, as it turned out.) July 4, 1980. An hour of silence was scheduled for noon, and I entered into it fully. A vast crowd of about a thousand settled in concentric rings around the council fire and a deep quiet descended.... After 50 minutes the raucous voice of a young woman could be heard at the periphery, shrieking something about how we were intellectually dead and worthless. Someone began the OM chant and everyone joined in, drowning the shrieker's harangues in a twenty minute chant that sent many of the participants into ecstasies. To describe the events and feelings of the Rainbow Gathering is not that easy; I'll try to do so now, to wit: Dancing, dancing, dancing. Everywhere dancers and the throbbing of drums. Early morning: the rattle and clink of dozens of forks, spoons and plates rapping time to rainbow Asa Heart's "Good morning sunshine, good morning, sun" song with its ever varying greetings to everyone/everything: "Good morning people, good morning dogs...good morning forests, good morning streams....good morning mountains, good morning thumbs etc. Then a fadeaway into silence, as empty stomachs growl in anticipation of breakfast. hundreds gather, waiting, then the cry, " Circle up! Circle up!" and a vast joining of hands in a mighty ring around the council area. Faces begin to lose their sleepy grumpiness and somewhere in the circle a voice takes flight in the Ooooooommmmnmnmm chant which almost instantly floods forth from every throat and heart 'til you can't tell your own voice from the general prayer and an electric tingle spreads from hand to arm to heart to head to the other arm to other hand and into the next person in an ego dissolving torrent of love and only later do you notice the chant is over and Indian and rebel yells are zipping through the air as cheerful fists are raised and waved about, and the circle splinters into a milling mob until in a twinkle it reforms into five concentric back to back rings squatting or sitting convivially while with calls of "Hanta Yo" (“clear the way” in Lakota Souix), sweat-streaming servers arrive laden with great kettles of hot oatmeal mixed with fruit. In ten minutes all are chomping on the sweet rich substance and the very hungry are ambling up to the servers with pleading faces and out thrust bowls. The crowd begins to subside as lines grow at the dishwashing station. Then calls of "Quiet!" and "Feather!" ring out, and behold: at the center of the circles "Respect the feather!" a man or woman, clothed or nude, stands holding an eagle feather high above his or her head. Voices drop into silence and the speaker (for such does the feather signify) holds forth on whatever subject: a poem; announcements of impending activities such as a yoga workshop, a dance class, herb-gathering expeditions; a call for volunteers to: carry water, dig shitters (slit trenches), baby-sit kids at Kid Village, collect firewood, prepare food, relieve security staff, etc. There were expressions of delight over the effects of the circle or nearly anything, calls for help: "Like, I left my backpack over by those trees, y'know, and when I came back it was gone! If you see a (blue/red Kelty/Eagle Pass) pack, bring it to Lost & Found." The Council ends. The drums strike up again and people drift off in knots or alone. (How appropriate that I'm penning these lines in the Rainbow Restaurant in Kelso, Washington.]. A sweet haze of marijuana lingers over the camp before rising into the haze over the surrounding mountains. The day gracefully spends itself, and then around 6 pm the circle reforms like a lotus flower for the nightly vegetarian feast and Council. Many eat at the Krishna camp at the far northern end of camp. Night falls dreamily with the lighting of sundry pipes and joints. Impoverished nicotine fiends prowl in search of King Nick. The drums, now deep-throated congas and smartly rapped bongos, roar forth, surrounded by a mob of frenzied dancers yipping like Indians, glimmering sweatily in the firelight. Madame Frog's Tea Parlor brews its mystery drink for all and "hug nets" snare the unwary in a circle of flushed and smiling happy folks. Finally even the owl of Minerva nods to dream and the first faint touch or Aurora's delicate fingers smear the east with rosy pink. Then comes Asa, as steady as Time, to sing in the new day. Nick and I dined nightly at the Krishna Camp. On the evening of the 5th, Gadhadhar dasa, one of the Krishna devotees invited all who wanted to visit their farm, "New Vrindaban" in Northern West Virginia for as long as they wanted, gratis. They were nearing completion of Prabhupada's Palace , a bejeweled shrine to their late spiritual master, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the initiator of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, Incorporated. The festival was nearing its end, and Joe was preparing to head back to DC, so I decided to visit New Vrindaban. Nick was set for moving directly for o0regon, but I convinced him to stopover in NV for a day or two to relax and eat before going cross country, Besides, NV was very close to I-70, the route he'd have to take, so he might as well get a ride up to the farm for an easy start..Although adamant at first, he at length agreed. The following morning, after breakfast, we ambled over to the K-camp, which was in the process of preparing for the trip. We secured places on a van of theirs and helped carry out recyclable waste and refuse to the collection area, loaded their vans (one of which wouldn't start, so I flagged down a stepvan and borrowed their jumper cable) and set off for New Vrindaban, arriving about midnight. 7/16/80 The Black Hills Survival Conference
He offered me a position as an apprentice gold miner, with free food and a percentage of the profits. He hasn't struck gold yet, but has identified the soil in the region of the stream he's panning as magnetic earth, said to be found around gold strata. I said I was interested but had other plans for the rest of the week. He gave me the name of a buddy of his to contact if I wished to pursue the matter further, and left. After his departure, a Rapid City policeman sat down nearby. Wanting to check on P.H.'s story, I asked the cop how to find out the location of mines or registered claims. He didn't know, but suggested the courthouse. He had no information of the Black Hills Survival Conference, thought it was a rock festival of some kind. He had a very low opinion of Amerinds, and said, in a low whisper(after spotting an Indian or two in the restaurant) that fully 3/4 of the adult Indians were alcoholics, a number I've heard quoted elsewhere. He advised that I camp at a KOA or YMCA for the night, saying the area was rather rough. Indeed, all nightclubs and bars in town have a sign warning patrons to keep firearms and knives at home. I thanked the policeman, went over to the YMCA, found they required a youth hostel card/pass and $9 dollars to gain the privilege of sleeping on a cot in a hot airless room with 12 other people, and went out to the main road to hitch. Most drivers didn't look enthusiastic. I was on the verge of attempting take me out to hike out of town when I flagged down a 30ish woman who agreed to leave me at to the site. After I cautioned her that they didn't want campers to show up till the following morning, she agreed to leave me at a Skelly truck stop on the road to the site. She gave me a flowertop. She was thinking of going to Saudi Arabian with an engineer she'd recently met. I wished her much luck and took my leave of her. , At the truck stop, I filled up on water, relaxed in the air conditioning for a short while and meandered out. A pair of huge mosquitoes tried to hit me up for a drink, so I moved away from the building and over to the road nearby. A hitch-hiker got out of a car on the I-90 exit ramp and started walking up the other direction, away from the site, so I started toward him. About halfway there, he spotted me and came walking over. He was from Minnesota, and together we walked down toward the site. A van driven by a very drunken young man took us to the site, where we were turned back by security folks, who asked us to return in the morning. The driver, who was miffed about having been kicked out the gathering earlier that evening, let us pass the night in his yard. The next morn, we got up, had a quick breakfast and walked out to the main road, where after picking up more water at the truck stop, we headed for the site and were speedily picked up by a pair of staffers from the Black Hills Alliance, who took us to the parking lot. At the parking lot we were asked whether we were in possession of guns, drugs or alcohol. Replying in the negative, we were asked to proceed to the entry booth, a lean-to made of pine boughs. There, a very pregnant staffer sold us buttons emblazoned "Whatever befalls the earth befalls the people of the earth" This was printed across a scene of the Black Hills, all encircled with eagle feathers. The buttons cost $1 each and were a form of entrance ticket. Moving onward I passed I passed through the gate in the barbed wire fence, and went to a hilltop, where a woman sat on a scaffold connected by phoneline to security. Asked her if she needed any help and she asked me to go tell a group of campers just descended from a tour bus where to camp and to relay this information to the k gatekeepers: People are not to camp on the hills themselves but rather in the low areas between them. I did so and then hoisted my pack off to my camping spot. July 18th 1980 12:15 pm The thunder of a B-52 jet bomber reverberates across the hilly ground occupied by the Black Hills Survival Conference. From bordering Ellsworth AFB, the enormous jets took off every twenty minutes, carrying their lethal loads of nuclear weaponry across the continent in search of a crisis. Spent yesterday meeting random people from different parts of the world. The number of participants swelled all day from about 30 to over 500 by 11 pm. 12 latrines (jiffy johns) were up and the wind was blowing a stiff breeze of hot dry air all day long. At nightfall, a great black cloud loomed slowly over the horizon, threatening rain which never fell. The BHA staff, monitoring weather reports, found out a major wind storm was on the way. They sent a P.A. equipped truck across the campground, cautioning tenters to secure their gear. Many took their poles down and sat atop them, prepared to weather the storm which failed to appear for two hours and even then was relatively weak. There are folks here from the Rainbow Gathering tapping tomtoms and smiling; earnest intense activists from antinuclear and corporate responsibility groups; Indians trotting and galloping about on horseback; children running around playing and loads of other, mostly young folks here to learn and discuss environmental issues. They were here about issues ranging from the extinction of the family farm to nuclear proliferation, solar power and wind power. Today, the wind is dying down as the heat comes down and heat mirages ripple across the brawn and dusty field. Backpackers trickle in steadily across the slight rise between the parking lot and camping areas. No BHA sponsored events are scheduled 'til 5pm tonight, and so people lazily mingle and meet each other. Rick and Bill, Pennsylvanians who drove out here along I-90, are here to participate. We got to know a bit of each other and are getting along well. Rick had been living with Indians for a short time and participated in rituals with them. 8:15pm The day burned somnolently through to evening. After a delay of some hour and a half, the day's program has begun. First an Indian folksinger performed some rather angry tunes. Then an Indian woman delivered an invocation in Lakotah. Next, the owner of the property addressed the crowd, welcoming them to his ranch. An environmental economic specialist followed , then a representative of Miners For Safe Energy, who worked at the Homestead Mine, a gold producer owned by the Hearst family. He is trying to educate miners to the dangers of uranium. 7:19 am Went to the Skelly Truck Stop with Bill and Rick and a squirming carful of Indian kids. (they were going down to Rapid City to score), to catch up on this log. While sipping surprisingly good coffee I met a veteran Rainbower and his woman; they described this gathering as a slightly different, more intellectual event. Around 8:45, I headed back to the BHSC and walked about an eighth of a mile before flagging down a California van. There were several hitchers already in it, including bearded young Charley from Oregon, who operates the Sea Star Hostel on the southern Oregon coast. He described himself as a historian, interested in observing people on their various paths. I warned the driver and occupants of the van , as we bumped and jolted our way over the gravel road leading to camp, to extinguish all joints and thoroughly aerate the vehicle before reaching the parking lot. After we got in, Charley and I walked over to the entrance, got buttons, (I'd lost mine, and entered camp. He left his backpack near mine and we walked over to the stage area where he immediately spotted some Oregon acquaintances. The speaker, a young white woman, was reading excerpts from the Council on Foreign Relation's annual report, which alluded to the Trilateral Commission's desire to centralize and control the Free World's economies for the CFR's benefit. She named some of the more prominent Trilateralists and their corporations and suggested that groups and events such as the present one are giving the Trilateral Commission no end of worry and concern. After this speaker, Jessie Young crooned some tunes and I went back to camp. Still wired from the five cups of coffee I'd drunk earlier in the day, I walked about, tapping my peanut butter can as a drum in an attempt to locate some Rainbow folks. I found only one drummer. He was uncommunicative and I soon left. I heard a group chant going on somewhere near the food co-op. I headed there, but the sound abruptly halted. I cupped my ears and located the group. There were about 50 people in an interwoven circle. After I joined it, an angry John Trudell came up complaining about the noise. Forty of the Rainbowers melted off the rest formed a silent smaller circle. Eventually we (for I'd joined the circle) went to a tent nearby the southern edge of camp and smoked Thai Stick. The circle's unity rapidly fell away and I left, as Wave had earlier. Being quite swozzled, it took me 20 minutes to find the camp. A slight rain had begun and I pulled my sleeping bag into the tent, awakened Rick, who'd been sleeping outside the tent, and passed out. July 20, 1980 Awakened by a trio of Indian kids. They poured into the tent in search of Rick, for whatever purpose. He'd departed earlier to attend a security meeting around 7:45 am, so they rousted Bill and began their daily routine of doping. I declined the proffered joints and hashish and climbed out of the tent. Partly cloudy, but the gently rolling brown hills were dry and dusty. After performing my toilet, I munched an orange and a peanut and apple jelly sandwich and went across the meadow to the workshop area atop the ridge. The manure digester was busily producing methane gas, though the attached meter showed only one pound of pressure within the gas bag. I tried to attend a Trilateral Commission workshop, but it was overflowing with nearly 500 people and I could barely hear. Then I went over the meadow to the stage, listened fitfully to a nervous speaker's energy rap, read some Greenpeace handouts and came back to the tent. Bill, Rick and I devised a stew of potatoes, onions, beef and soybean & macaroni which tasted remarkably like library paste and was very filling. Then I heard the sound of congas, tambourines and chanting. It seemed to be coming from behind the eastern water tower. I went over, hoping to find some Rainbow folks. Just before reaching the area, the music abruptly ceased and was replaced by the discord of argument. More security wet-blanketing? Not this time. Right now a burly radio reporter was grousing about the free form music interfering with his concentration as he prepared a story for "a national network", probably Pacifica. He was told by all to repair to the media shack 2/4 mile away, at which he grew indignant, claiming that the music was bothering quite a few people (though he wouldn't say exactly who, and a crowd of 100 or so were enthusiastically cheering the music). Finally a grinning security fellow strolled up, listened to both sides' tale, and proposed bringing it up before a general council. The media snoid strolled off and after another brief musical interlude, the Rainbow family OM circled and served dinner. I was already full of paste pot stew and declined food, but gave a dollar towards the next meal. Then I heard a slow drum cadence coming from the ridge between camp and parking lot. Went up, and lo! A pair of Buddhist monks, shaven headed and saffron robed, were leading about 120 folks in the "Na me myo ho ren ge kyo" chant as the western horizon flamed a brilliant orange. Then I went over to the Rainbows, briefly, listened to psychedelic philosophy and drank red zinger tea. Jessie Young finished off the evening and I sacked. 7/21/80 Up at 8:30 and down with Bill Cooper to the Rainbow Family's breakfast, a palatable meal of oatmeal, molasses fruits and spices. Rick came by a short while afterward and had some too. The rest of the day has been a slow burn: sat around camp reading from Greenpeace newspaper and was aroused by the sound of a small car rocketing past and screeching to a halt near the women's circle. A rapid jabber and an answering angered screech as four security folks ordered two women to put on shirts (no nipples visible here, please!) roll up their equipment and move out. A fierce squabble ensued before the securities left. Feeling overly toasted by the fierce sun, I decided to flee the dubious shade of Rick's tent for more substantial protection, namely the Pepsi shack. Partway there, I realized I'd left my all important registration button behind. Back to the tent. I pin on the button, head again toward Pepsiville and note, to my disgust, a quartet of Secs fanning out into the empty land between camp and Ellsworth AFB. As they disappear behind a rise. I see more Secs following: 2 on horseback, two more in a pickup truck, one on a motorcycle, one on foot and three or four in a car, the same who'd been hassling the women's circle. Presumably, someone from camp has dared violate the invisible barrier between camp and empty prairie, and the Secs are out to reprimand, capture and toss out the unlucky offender. Typical strong arm tactics of novice cops. Then the truck and horses come jouncing back the truck carrying the four walkers in back. They stop nearby and I sidle over and overhear that two riflemen armed with M-16s are out there prepared to repel any hippie assault on the airbase. One sec confided that it had been thought at first to have been members of a tribe at war with our Lakotah hosts, the Crow or Absaroka tribe, ready to pick off antinukers for the sake of enmity. I wandered off and finally gained the sanctuary of the Pepsi stand. Sat there a while, savoring the relative coolness. Heard a bit of drumming on the stage, so I wandered off in that direction; upon arriving, I was hailed by Bill Cooper. He was pulling security duty restricting access to the backstage. We talked, split a smoke and I went off to the Greenpeace area and the conference tents, where some nitpicking was going on about the definitions of master class, working class and middle class, etc. Went back to my tent, passed out briefly, ate a Rainbow meal, chanted with the Buddhists on the ridge; came down to camp, talked, walked, crashed out. 7/22/80 Up and at it by 7:45. Rainbow breakfast at 10 am. Off to Black Hills National Park before noon. Well, not precisely. Driving with Rick, B.C. and Don, we first go into Rapid City, where Rick tried unsuccessfully to pawn his portable tape player. Then off to a bank where a post office was, to attempt to register bogus names for the draft. The P.O. was closed, no dice. Rick seized the time and made off with a 13 star American flag from the bank. It'd been tucked away in the security guards desk, which was deserted. It too turned out to be unpawnable. We left town and headed west on Rte 44 along the Rapid River to a road marked "Private Do Not Enter!" which we did anyway, arriving at last at a craggy bend in the river, where a 7 foot deep blue/green pool of water lay. Quick strip, put on trunks and IN! to icy water, exceptionally refreshing. After a short while, we stopped swimming allowed the water to settle down and toss in lines baited with hunks of an enormous earthworm found lurking under a rock near the stream. A couple nibbles but no catch, though we espied a pair of brown suckers finning about. The terrain was blessedly different from the campsite, being a winding, rocky canyon well coated with firs; breezy as well. But by 5 o'clock, Rick drove us back to camp. He and Bill ate at the Staff kitchen; I at Rainbow Family kitchen: spaghetti with vegetarian sauce, hot bread, whole grained and tasty, a crisp salad, lightly flavored with a salty dressing. I headed back to my tent, stopping by briefly at the Michiganians' camp, where a lesbian was holding forth on her relationships with men, gay or otherwise. Went back to blessed sweet sleep. 7/23/80 At the Skelly Truck Stop preparatory to heading out from the Black Hills Survival conference. I have decided to hitch westward through Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Washington, perhaps stopping off here and there as the mood strikes me. I may pick fruit, as was oft recommended by Nick of the Rainbow Festival and other persons at the Black Hills Survival Conference. Some impressions of people I've met a t the BHSC: or at least one person. Gentle Breeze: A wanderer, aptly named. A very non-directive personality. Bearded, swarthy, shiny eyed, we met several days into the conference at an impromptu circle late at night. He'd been at the West Virginia gathering. Difficult to describe him; perhaps not fair to a person to try. Suffice it to say that he was a calm joy to be around, neither a leader type or follower type. We spoke of the pleasure of immersing oneself (temporarily) within different belief systems, exploring them through varying lenses, then pulling out again, refreshed by the change and given novel insights into experience. 7/28/80 Monday afternoon. Last night was a wild drunken ride through Wyoming with a beery chef who warned me time and time again to be closemouthed to strangers. He also recommended hopping freight trains as a viable mode of transportation. Left me around 1 am on a sheer bluff overlooking a stream. He was disappointed when I declined to do the gay thing. Awoke around 6 am and dozed on til 8:30. Walked to the Interstate. Half an hour I was picked up by a retired Army colonel who regaled me with war stories most of the way across Montana. Disdaining mere paperwork, Colonel. S. specialized in leading commando and rescue missions behind enemy lines in the Pacific Theater during world War II, in Korea and in Vietnam. Now retired, he is restless and is considering going mercenary in South Africa. He is certain that democracy has reached its nadir. Soon, a joint West German-US alliance will rule over all Caucasian peoples while China rules the East. Somewhere along the way Negroes will be annihilated. Colonel S. was tortured in North Vietnam. 7/29/80 9:45 am Ellensburg, Washington. East of Mount Rainier, whose mighty stub rears skyward, icebound and singularly uninviting in appearance. After the Colonel dropped me off, ten miles east of Bozeman, Montana, I sat, somewhat intemperately at times, for three hours, alternately invoking Buddha and Siva, though I could feel that the state of having a motive for prayer was inhibiting the religious process. The hours ticked by, and I finally hoisted my pack, began walking toward a rise a mile ahead on I-90, and lo! a pickup pulls up and offers me a ride as far as Tacoma. Steve was the driver, a carpenter working out of Gillette, Wyoming. His truck is powered by propane, giving it a similar mile per gallon ratio, but a reduction in fuel cost. With the two 100 gallon propane tanks in the back of his truck, Steve was able to cross half the continental United States, without needing more than water and oil maintenance. Yet we hear precious little about propane autos in the national media. 7/30/80 White Pass, Washington Outside a grocery store. Spent the night east of here 1/4 mile amid ash-encrusted fir trees. Ate a surprisingly tasty meal of macaroni and cheese washed down with moth tea ( a moth kamikazied into the tea in the dark, and lay undiscovered til it landed on my tongue.) Yesterday was a long day of fruitless thumb waving at indifferent drivers. I learned later a hitchhiker had murdered a driver recently near Yakima, an act which contributed quite a bit to hard times in the hitching life. From Ellensburg, one ride took me to Yakima over a series of arid escarpments. This driver was a cherry farmer with ten acres of trees. His crop suffered very little from Ht St Helen's eruptions. A pleasant ride, and I was in Yakima, where a rodeo was being held. In Yakima I tried at first to obey the ubiquitous "No Hitchhiking Beyond This Point" signs which were generally posted 1/4 mile from the freeway ramp. After several hundred cars had passed I grew bold and , marched over to the very ramp itself. No difference. Climbed under the overpass to have lunch in the shade and discovered someone's clothing stash of jeans, a nice coat and other items. Debated making off with the coat but decided not to. I did carry away a plastic trash bag. Climbed onto the overpass, attracting the attention of a police car, whose driver gave me a warning ticket, advising me not to hitchhike on freeways in Washington. Walked toward the next ramp, stopped halfway at a lake for a refreshing swim. Waited three hours at the ramp and finally a series of short rides took me here. (12:30pm). One driver, the first, stopped and took me to a point where I could legally hitch, where the road became a two lane undivided instead of a 4 lane divided, highway. I had been wearing a Mt. St, Helens sign; I left it in their car. I thereupon made one saying "5" indicating my interest and desire to go to Interstate 5, the major west coast artery. 45 minutes later, a VW van picked me up, taking me to the small town of Gleed. He'd stopped for me, he said, because he couldn't figure out my destination. Everyone here, it seems, calls the interstate "I-5", not "5". In any case, he advised me to make a new sign saying "White Pass". indicating the route I'd be taking across the Cascades. I did so. While standing outside of Gleed, I noted an ancient wagon, an ancient circus wagon, its wooden sides weathered bronze by the years of heat. It had iron shod, wooden spoked wheels. Then a motorcyclist pulled up. "Hop on," he said, "and I'll take you to a point just before the fork in the road to White Pass." I did and went 10 eye-streaming miles to that point, where another in a long series of tiny farming villages dotting the area east of the Cascades stood. Twenty minutes standing in the volcanic ash. I finally began walking over to a gas station/minimart to buy some cigarettes. A bearded young guy in a small camper-backed pickup squinted out at me (I was walking from out of the sunset), Read my sign and offered me a ride up to the pass. I hustled on inside to buy some Marlboros, came back out and found my pack already in the truck. I clambered in and was greeted by another hitchhiker, Jim Brenner..of Longview Washington, who'd had his car's engine blow up in Spokane the night before. As we jounced our way up the Cascades to White Pass, we talked about life in Washington State. He'd lived there all his life, and now, married and the father of two kids, was content to hunt in the mountains and fish on the Washington coast. He invited me to drop by his place in Longview while in-state. His phone number is 577-4701. The sun was setting fast as we pulled into White Pass. We were let off at a 76 gas station. Jim wrote a hitching sign: "I-5 Longview" and kept thumbing. I walked a short way down the road to the east and entered the ash-encrusted forest. I rather hurriedly built a fire, partly out of primeval darkness dread and partly to cook some macaroni and cheese. The woods was full of deadfalls: plenty of firewood. Finally full, I brewed some tea and carefully unrolled my sleeping gear, taking pains to avoid tracking ash into it. Morning rolled around. I awakened, decided to sleep on; finally rose at 11:30, Went over to the 76, where a mound of packages testified to the number of Pacific Crest Trail hikers that were passing through. Caught a ride with a friendly old log truck driver, then several small rides and stopped to have coffee after picking up some marmalade and bread at a grocery store in the town of Morton, Washington. 7pm. Have arrived in Toutle, Washington, closest town to Mt. St. Helens. A comely young woman, Susan Pritchard, picked me up outside the Mountain Inn, near Mossy Rock, Washington. She was bound for Portland, where she lives, just coming back from a week in Alaska. She dropped me off on Rt. 504, 9 miles from Toutle, and gave me her address and phone number, inviting me to stop in soon. Toutle is barely a town: several small shops and some scattered houses near a reedy lake. I walked over to a small souvenir stand, inspected some pumice, (25 cents a stone) and strolled down to the Toutle River. Devastation. The Toutle, once a clear chill stream splashing about a boulder strewn riverbed within a forest, is now a sullen, muddy creek surrounded by a flat expanse of hard dried mud, nearly six feet deep. Trees remaining on the river's former edges show floodmarks 12 feet above ground. 7/31/80 Toutle river floodplain, morning. A restless, dream filled night between two logs resting on the ash/mud mixture that coats both banks of the river for 50-100 yards into what used to be forests. The effect is as if the Army Corp of Engineers had hastily scraped away all trees from the riverbanks and poured grey cement over all, extending for over 50 miles. Yesterday evening I went half a mile up the Toutle in search of a good camping spot. Decided on a pair of big logs which offered protection from the wind. Built a small fire to brew tea with and dined on peanut butter and orange marmalade on sourdough french bread. Around 8:45 I notice some small flying insects hovering about the vicinity. I slapped one down and discovered, to my horror, that they were large and fierce looking mosquitoes: And me with no repellent! As memories of sleepless, bug-bitten nights rolled forth before me, I put all my gear out of sight between the logs and set off for Toutle in hopes of finding an open store. Looking behind me to make sure of my gear's location, I was unpleasantly surprised to find a line of mosquitoes thirstily in pursuit. I stepped up my pace and they followed suit, at which I broke into a run for 100 yards, leaving them behind. Finally reached the road, greeted the watchman, who was keeping the temporary bridge secure from tourists cars and the like, and jogged into Toutle, where I saw to my dismay the grocery store was locked. The cashiers were still inside, totting up their money, so I tapped on the door and implored them to let me purchase some bug repellent. At first it looked bad, but then a male cashier relented, let me in and showed me to the repellent stand, where I grabbed a can of OFF! spray, paid and left. Back down to the bridge, where I offered a very grateful bridge guard the use of my spray, cadged a cigarette, talked briefly and went back to camp. Sprayed myself down and remained mosquito-free all night. August 2, 1980. Jay Reichmann is a young man whom I met as 2 trekked down into Devil's Elbow state park, on the Oregon coast. He was feeling blue and was on the way out of the park when I greeted him with a cheery "These crows control the park, don't they?" indicating the cawing pair sitting on a nearby park bench. We fell to talking; that is, I plied him with questions and he answered them, and before we knew it, he'd decided to stay on another night at Devil's Elbow. We dined that evening on a stew of freshly steamed mussels, noodles and onions. The whole time, Jay kept glancing worriedly over his shoulder, anticipating the arrival of an unfriendly ranger with whom he'd had a run-in the night before. The Ranger never showed, much to his relief. Jay is from New Jersey, working pick-up jobs in Portland, and staying with a Sufi guru in some sense of discipleship. About 18 years old, earnest and gentle, he looks and is Jewish, though in ancestry more than in practice. We spoke on many topics that young intellects dwell on: philosophy, esoterica, fiction, current events. We bedded down in a clearing in a dense copse of trees. Hours later, much to my fright, I was awakened by Jay shrieking and shoving at me. It was pitch black and I had no idea who my assailant was, so I howled and shoved back, (both of us entangled in our sleeping bags) until I recognized his voice and, grabbing his arm, yelled at him to calm down 'til he did so. He'd awakened in the midst of some nightmare about a serpent and hearing me snore right next to him in the darkness, concluded the dream was real and began shoving me away. I offered him a cigarette, which he declined, and we both drifted back to sleep. In the morning he was embarrassed and apologetic. I reassured him, telling him of a similar event wherein I'd awakened one night convinced that ants were crawling all over my bed and screamed for help while brushing away imaginary attackers. We breakfasted on an oatmeal-noodle-raisin-peanut butter combination. Very filling. Having slept late, and also because of damp wood that refused to ignite for over an hour, breakfast was at noon. We lazed the day away fishing and reading. Jay left for Portland around 4:30 pm. August 3rd, 1980. In a Dairy Queen in Portland, sipping coffee and chain smoking. I was dropped off outside of Susan Pritchard's house by an architect driving a Datsun 280Z, who'd picked me up just across the Willamette River from the college town (OSU) of Corvallis. I had been intending to stop off at ISKCON Portland for food and strange vibes. It turned out to be in this general section of town, anyway. Que sara. An anxiety-ridden woman at the Dairy Queen is rambling out her fears and anger to me. She finally leaves. It is 2pm and I'm trying to decide what to do. Call Susan? Go to ISKCON? I'm awfully close to Susan's place, so I suppose I should call her. Time will tell. Yesterday evening I was going to stay at Devil's Elbow, but then as the sun faded below the horizon, I decide to leave and head for Florence as a stopover before going to Portland. Climbed up the park road to Hwy 101, thumbed fruitlessly for a time, then walked over a sweeping concrete bridge that spanned the Devil's Elbow valley and walked into a tunnel that went through the next ridge. Sang some opening passages from Tales From Topographic Oceans and thumbed in the bright light. A panel truck honked and its driver gestured to me before disappearing out the other end of the tunnel. I jogged through the tunnel and caught up with the truck which took me to Florence. I was going to go to a bar with him but speedily abandoned the idea and left when I walked in and saw the profusion of Free Souls motorcycle club members inside. Went back to the truck, got my pack and went over to a park where I slept, again mosquito free. ( I may seem to pay a good bit of attention to the pesky little fellows, but having spent many a sleepless night swatting fitfully at unseen blood drinking wretches, I tend to be more than usually aware of them.) August 4, 1980 Back in that Portland Dairy Queen. 5:35 pm. I spent yesterday afternoon, evening and night at Iskcon, Portland. Yep, Hari Krishnas. After leaving the Dairy Queen yesterday, I called Susan. I was nervous, having swozzled two cups of coffee while listening to that anxiety filled sufferer, and also because of my nervousness toward talking to women I've barely met. A sleepy male voice answered. My heart leapt into my throat, but I asked for Susan anyway. When she got on the phone, I greeted her, reminded her of our meeting. Susan seemed pleased, explained that she was popping around town on various errands, but I was welcome to stop in. I told her I'd be by the following evening as I was going to look up a friend that evening. She told me to come by after 6pm and thanked me for looking her up. I rang off and looked up the address of the Iskcon temple, asked a gas station attendant directions [it was about 40 blocks distant] and set off, hitching rather lackadaisically. Before long, a car pulled up. The driver, a Syrian named Yosef, greeted me and insisted on taking me the entire distance; married to an American, he was hoping to become an American as well, in order to be able to sail on American ships. He expressed interest in traveling around about as I was, and intended to give up the landlubber life as soon as possible! After Yosef dropped me off, I walked to the Iskcon address shown in the phone book: an incorrect listing. Just an anonymous apartment building with no evidence of Hinduism about it. I shucked off my pack, dug through it til I found the Back To Godhead magazine I'd gotten in West Virginia and found another address, only a block away. As I walked up to the building , a large white frame house with shady lawn, I spied a sari-clad woman on the porch. , I pranam-ed, folding the hands prayerlike, held high on the chest. and "Hari-bol"-ed her. "Are you here for prasadam?" she asked. Yes, I was, and I also wanted to attend aratika, the evening prayer service/ceremony. She led me around the side of the house and down some steps to the basement, where I could leave my back-pack. A devotee was sweeping the floor of the basement. I stuck my backpack under the stairs and stood around, 'til another devotee led me upstairs, peppering me with questions: Was this the first temple I'd been to? No. What other ones? The West Virginia farm and the Potomac, Maryland temple. Did I like the palace in West Virginia? Oh yes, very much. I asked for the bathroom and was shown there. Could I take a brief shower? That would be very good" said my guide devotee, wrinkling his nose at my sweaty travel-worn scent. I did so, luxuriating in the hot water and peppermint soap. Afterward, I asked for a place to chant a round or two and was shown to a back room where I chanted two rounds and read a bit from The Nectar Of Devotion, a guide to Bhakti Yoga by A.C.B.V.P. , of course. The chapter I read from was a definition of "Perverted Reflection of Mellows", a rather obscure point of metaphysical knowledge dealing with, as far as I could tell, the inappropriate enjoyment of ecstasy by the inexperienced yogin. I also read a bit from the Krsna Book, volume 1; the stories surround the divine cowherd's infancy. In the selection I was reading, Kamsa, the cruel emperor of the region, sent the witch Putana to slay Krsna by offering him a poisoned nipple to suckle. Being divine, Krsna readily knew of the plot and not only drank the poison, but also sucked the "life air" from Putana's body, slaying her. Soon it was time for Aratika and I went down with the devotees to the temple room. At a honk from a conch shell, the plywood curtain was pulled back, exposing the Deities, two identical marble figures with glossy black wigs, both dressed identically and both with arms upraised as if in benediction or (to a non-Hindu eye) in surrender. Incense burned, cymbals and drums clanged and boomed, Sanskrit prayers were intoned. After the service, the temple president (a thirtyish slight young man whom for a time I'd thought was present at the Potomac temple, giving me no end of shudders until I learned otherwise) read, in Sanskrit and English, the verses from a chapter of Srimad Bhagavatam. Another brief chanting interlude, and dinner was held out on the lawn. Several local folks were present, including a nearly witless wino who after being fed made a nuisance of himself until being escorted off-premises. After dinner, I watched Prabhupada on videotape as he squawked and honked his way through a lecture, then another tape called Benediction Moon, set in Mayajpur, India, Chaitanya, the Bhatkiyoga proponent of old's birthplace. The 11 Initiating Gurus, incidently all WASPS, made brief appearances, looking well fed and properly pious. Then bedtime. In the morn, after breakfast I left, first saying goodbye to Bhakta Kim and Markinda, two friendly devotees. I gave Kim a few pieces of pumice. After leaving I went to Washington Park and spent the day lazing about and dozing, midway between the Japanese Gardens and the Zoo in a little roadside rest area. August 5,1980 Morning. Spent a fine chatty evening with Susan and her roommate in their pleasantly furnished house. When I first came to the door, I stood there uncertainly, a bit nervous, then knocked. Susan came to the door, greeted me. I set my pack down in the living room, next to hers and we strode into the dining room, where I recounted to her the time in the ISKCON house. She talked of the academic and administrative politics currently running rife in the local educational system. Half an hour passed and Karen, her roommate showed. She peppered me with questions about my journey and I showed her a copy of BIG and the Weyerhaeuser Southwesterner newspaper dealing with the events in the Mt St Helens area. A knock at the door. A potential new roommate comes in; he's from Atlanta, will be attending school in the area. Long talks on a variety of subjects, then he left and, feeling tired, I retired to the extra bedroom upstairs which Susan had generously offered me. There I read a few sections from a book, The World's Great Events, about the great battle at Metaurus during which the Romans turned back the invading Carthaginians. Now it is 10:30, and I must decide my next steps from here. Directions: Milwaukee Ave north to Mcloughlin Ave north, across the Ross Island Bridge to I-5 south. END Ron Huber transcription from paper diary. |