Old Man Hood casts his gaze

Old Man Hood

After a week of brooding, the Old Man shrugged off his ethereal cloak and cast his imperious gaze across the valley floor.

Humans blithely played out their laughable, petty dramas.  A piteous sight. 

When first they came, although they were fewer, their struggles had more meaning.  Which band of flea-bitten apes would spear the salmon that thrived in the rivers at his feet?  Which would summer in his highland meadows?  Back then, they settled such issues with sticks and stones. 

They do it differently now.  They've abandoned the sticks and stones in favor of obscure and meaningless rituals.  Elections?  The people kept their leader?

New leader, old leader... who cares?  The Old Man has seen them rise and fall over the last 20,000 years.

In this blink of his eye, they are numberless.  In the next, they'll go the way of the giant sloths and the three-toed horses and the wooly mammoths.

And he'll still be gazing out across the valley floor, toward the unconquerable vastness of Pacifica, by whom he is rendered as inconsequential as the flea-bitten tribesman that gazes upon him even now from the top of dead little Tabor.

Willamette River decides not to flood --this time

Willamette Falls after 3 days of solid rain

The Willamette River crested today after last week's Pacific Northwest downpour.  Three days of steady, heavy rain.  The National Weather Service says that the crest reached 16.28 feet in Portland.  Just about a foot and a half below flood stage, and nothing at all like the Flood of '96, when the river crested at 28.6 feet, surpassing flood stage by a full 10 and a half feet!

But the Flood of '96 was itself dwarfed by the Great Flood of 1861.  The Great Flood completely drowned some townships, including Champoeg, the site of the first organized government of the Oregon Territory.  The Great Flood was so massive that, at its peak, the volume of water flowing in the Willamette River surpassed that of the Mississippi River itself.  The Great Flood is the biggest Willamette River flood in recorded history.

The first Oregonians, the Chinook, the Clackamas, the Long Tom, the Yamhill, who bequeathed their names to the Willamette's tributaries, came here some ten thousand years ago.  In those days, before recorded history the Willamette still flooded, but there were backwaters and sloughs to absorb the floods so they wreaked less destruction on the valley floor.  The floods were less severe in those days before civilization channeled and deepened the river.

But a few thousand years before mankind first came to Oregon were the great floods.  These were the floods  that came from the north and east.  They were caused by the melt of retreating glaciers.  The first and greatest was the Lake Missoula Flood which came when a glacial dam broke open and unleashed an entire ocean of water through the Columbia Gorge, scouring the earth.  Over the next few thousands of years, scores of floods literally scrubbed eastern Washington of its topsoil and deposited it in the Willamette Valley. The land still bears the scars of those great washings.

Clear demonstration of two truths, I suppose:  the Willamette River is a flood-prone river.  And recorded history really isn't much time at all.

I'll tell you this, though:  the water made an impressive sight.  Roaring and rioting over Willamette Falls.

Chat with the GOP at the Oregon State Fair

Mom and I were walking through one of the exhibition halls at the Oregon State Fair last Saturday when we happened upon the Republican Party booth.  "Mom, why don't you go ahead and check out the quilting exhibits?" I suggested.  "I want to stop in here and talk for a minute."

Poor, long-suffering Mom looked around, noticed the gaudy red, white, and blue elephant painted on the booth facade, and quickly agreed.  "Be nice," she said as she hurried away.

I do this every year:  stop in and chat with the folks manning the GOP booth.  Occasionally, I'll hook up with someone with whom I can have an honest (if heated) conversation. 

This year, they were distributing mock ballots for folks to indicate who they might support among the current slate of GOP presidential candidates.  I picked up a ballot and put my check mark next to Jon Huntsman's name, then handed it back to the fellow standing in the booth.  He seemed like a nice enough fellow:  about my age, dark-haired, clean-cut, with an easy-going mien.  I think his name was Jerry.

"Are you a registered Republican?" he asked me.

"No," I said.  "I lean Democrat."

Another fellow, a passer-by like me, was standing near us and immediately jumped into our budding conversation.  "Oh, you're a Democrat, eh?" he said, with the telltale sneer in his voice.  "Why do you want $5 per gallon gas?"  The smirk on his face indicated to me that he was a Tea Partier. 

I ignored him, directing my remarks to Jerry.  "I lean Democrat, but I'm an Oregonian first.  I voted for Governor Atiyeh."

"Atiyeh was a great governor," Jerry said.

"But that's my problem with the Republican party today," I said.  "Leaders like Governor Atiyeh can't get anywhere in the party.  Think of the great Republican leaders in Oregon's past.  Governor McCall, Senator Hatfield, Senator Packwood.  None of them could go anywhere in the GOP today.  And the people you are running --Michelle Bachmann, Rick Perry, Newt Gingrich --they don't know the first thing about Oregon, about what we believe or what we want."

Jerry didn't disagree.  "The remedy," he said, "is to get involved.  That's how we turn this around.  We need people to get involved and help make a change."

The Tea Party fellow felt the need to chime in.  "You still haven't said why you want $5 per gallon gasoline," he said.  (Who knows what he meant by that?)

"Dude," I said, "Jerry and I are talking right now.  If you want to talk to me, wait until we're through."  Tea Party Man shook his head and walked away.  I turned back to Jerry.  "The Republican party in Oregon is in a shambles right now."

Jerry considered for a moment and then nodded.  "Yeah, it is," he said.  "But if people get involved we can change things."

We shook hands and I set off to find Mom.  But I've been thinking about our conversation ever since.  Jerry (if that was, in fact, his name) was a nice guy.  And he was obviously sincere.  He did more listening than talking.  If he were to represent the rank-and-file Oregon GOP rather than the Tea Party zealots, I think our state and our country would be well-served, indeed.  I might even be able, someday, to vote for a Republican.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Fairs, fairs, fairs

Fair entrance

Oregon State Fair

Mrs. Batey came down to visit this last weekend. On Saturday we went to the Oregon State Fair.

Prize-winning orchids

There are always plenty of sights to see at the Fair.  We spent a good while admiring photos, arts, and crafts.  And we took a stroll through the animal pavilions to see the various livestock.  Mom likes to go see the big horses:  the Clydesdales, Belgians, and Shires.  This year, there were no Percherons.

Believe it or not, this is a cake.

Oregon has a wealth of talented bakers, artists, and crafts-people as we saw from the exhibits for cakes, and photographs, and quilts. 

Piglets with momma

This year, Maty had to work and couldn't join us, which broke a 6 year tradition.  The State Fair was one of our first dates.  But Mom and I had a good time, nonetheless.

Colorful Hawthorne folk

Hawthorne Street Fair

Then, on Sunday, the Hawthorne Street Fair was on, so Mom got a good taste of my quirky neighborhood. 

Unicycling bagpiper

The freaky Hawthorne folk did not disappoint on Sunday.  They were out in all their freak regalia.

Peruvian chess set

Mom seemed to have a good time in the morning, talking to the merchants and meeting my neighbors.

Mom and Maty clowin' around

Maty got home in the middle afternoon and the three of us took another spin through.

Heading for home

I found it serendipitous that the Hawthorne Street Fair coincided with Mom's visit. She got to see the neighborhood at its best. An excellent late-summer episode.

Ripe blackberries

Lost in thought

Pushing up Tabor, I spotted the first ripe blackberries of the season.

Himalayan (or Armenian) blackberries are the most prevalent blackberries in the Willamette Valley.  The Oregon Department of Agriculture considers Himalayan blackberry to be a noxious weed, and it is certainly an invasive species. It has pretty much choked out the native Oregon blackberry.  (What a shame!  Why can't they co-exist, peacefully?)

According to the ODA website, Armenian blackberry was first noted in Marion County in 1922. Now, less than a hundred years later, it is everywhere.  And it is hard to kill.  I've been battling a bramble in one corner of my yard for 10 years now.  Tough stuff.  To call it a "hearty" plant would be like saying Rasputin could take a punch. 

First blackberries of the season

It's always bittersweet to see the blackberries ripen.  They go from emerald green, through crimson, to purple-black, and then they're ready for eating.  And they're delicious.

But ripe blackberries have a sad significance as well.  They foretell the end of summer.

New fence curtails mountain-biker derring-do

This has been a kind summer.  And it's not over yet.  But when the blackberries ripen, I start to feel a searing little pain in the back of my throat.  It's the pain you get when you lose something that you've always known you would lose, but that you still can't bear to see go.

On the other hand, what is forever really worth?

Bagby rite of passage

The trail to Bagby runs along Nohorn Creek

Bagby Hot Springs is an Oregon rite of passage.  Anyone who has lived in the upper Willamette Valley for any length of time knows the name, at least, of the natural hot springs that bubble up on the southern flanks of Old Man Hood. I venture that most who avail themselves of the beauty of the wilds around the mountain have visited them.  Not so, I.  At least, not until last Saturday.

Devil's Club berries provide stark color contrast in the forest undergrowth

Fortuitously, on the very day that Portland temperatures surpassed the 90 degree mark for the first time this calendar year, Jeanine Potts and I took a hike up to Bagby.  Several weeks earlier, we had done some tramping along the banks of the Clackamas River and were so enchanted by the beauty that we decided to go further, to see what might be seen.  The rangers at the Ranger Station suggested Bagby and, since neither of us had yet been there, we gave it a go. 

A fingerling trout, camouflaged but betrayed by his shadow

Bagby has something of a spotty reputation.  It is known among the general public as a hangout for drunks, rowdies and trouble-makers.  Apparently, in past years there have been incidents involving drunkenness and violence.  I know people who fear to go to Bagby.

When we arrived the parking lot at the trail head was full.  A plaid-shirted volunteer, an older fellow named Norman, had set up his trailer there, where he might keep an eye on parked vehicles to prevent thefts.  There were many folks of all ages on the trail, and the only danger I could imagine would have been a tumble into a rocky ravine or stream bed.

If you don't ramble, you grow moss

The hike was easy and beautiful.  We arrived at the hot springs, with their rustic bath houses just as we were hitting our stride and so rather than stop, we pressed on, agreeing to check out the tubs on the way back  The trail extends beyond the hot springs into the Bull of the Woods wilderness.  We saw some excellent camp sites along Nohorn Creek

We went up another mile or so into the woods and found a gravelly beach along the creek.  We didn't yet know that Portland was cooking, but we were plenty warm from our hike.  So the coolness of the water, when we forded the creek, was bliss.

After we'd sat for a while, munching fruit and sandwiches, we were discovered by stinging flies, which swooped in for a bite.

At one point, a fly landed on my left forearm and as I raised my right hand to swat it, another, bigger fly, a predator species, swooped down and plucked the first fly off my arm.  It all took less than a second, but I was struck by the incident.  Wheel of Fortune, indeed.  And, like Hobbes said:  "...[natural] life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."

Have a soak!

We did indeed stop in at the tubs on the way back down the trail.  There were probably two dozen others there as well.  The water comes out very hot, but we drew cold water from the cistern to keep it tolerable.  Muscles tight from the hike loosened up nicely in the sulfurous water.

And, after all, it's Bagby Hot Springs --a rite of passage.

Update:  Thanks, Shusli, for correcting me.  What I had identified as elderberries are, in fact, Devil's Club.

Use that summer!

View from Mount Pisgah near Springfield, Oregon

Summer's halfway point, 2011.  So far, so good.  July is usually generous, here in Oregon, and although there have been rain and cool temperatures, this summer has been an improvement over last year, when the thermometer read 48 degrees (Fahrenheit) on the morning of July 5.

Wild flowers

Most years I talk a good game about spending time in nature, but this year I'm actually doing it.  My intrastate travels since June have taken me to Southern Oregon, the Oregon Coast, into the Mount Hood wilderness, and to various places up and down the Willamette Valley.

Roll right, stones

So, today, a post to exhort anyone out there who might agonize that summer is going by too fast.  Get out there and enjoy it!  You only get so many summers in your life and each one is a precious gift.

Alas for the departed

He came down through fields of green
On the summer side of life
His love was ripe

There were no illusions
On the summer side of life
Only tenderness

And if you saw him now
You'd wonder why he would cry
The whole day long
--Gordon Lightfoot

What a life!

Hiking Mount Pisgah

Up on top of Mount Pisgah

Sister Mia and I went on a short, steep hike up Mount Pisgah outside Eugene today.  We completed the 1.4 miles (straight up!) to the top well before the day was full.

Sun-bather

Which was good, because it was already hot when we made the summit.  My shirt was drenched.

Wild flowers

As I stated in my previous post, I'm working on a short story for a summer class at PCC, which comes at the expense of writing good solid blog posts for the next little while.

Mia at the summit

So, I took the opportunity afforded by the Pisgah vista to snap some photos to post here.

What a view!

Gotta keep the blog moving forward, you know?

The St. Paul hippie

Pseudo-hippie at Oregon Country Fair 2003

Note:  Although this story is (more or less) true, I've used fictional names.

What's a hippie?  Anybody know? 

I've been called a hippie before; I've even described myself (in jest) as a hippie.  But I'm no hippie.  Granted, years ago, when I had long hair, wore tie-dye tee-shirts and sandals and tied a peace sign around my neck, I might have looked like one.  A little bit, anyway.

But, although I'm all on board with the counterculture values of peace, love, and understanding, even if I wanted to be a hippie, I couldn't make the grade.  Hippie-ness is a mindset; it's something wired into one's DNA.  Hippies are born hippies.  And, here in the Willamette Valley, hippies rise up out of the rich, black soil of the valley floor, as natural and inherent as oak groves.  We've got whole tribes of them.  We're lucky that way.

St. Paul, out in the middle of the Willamette Valley

In the summer of 1997, I undertook to ride my bicycle from my home in southwest Portland to Eugene to attend the Oregon Country Fair.  It was a good long ride (about 120 miles) which I planned to do in 2 days.  I would ride along the rural back roads and highways that meander through the Willamette Valley and arrive at Brother Eric's house on the day before the Fair opened.

I had barely got out of Portland, my saddlebags heavy with clothing, sleeping bag, and camping equipment, when a construction staple, part of the detritus that litters the sides of our highways, punctured my front tire. And me without a patch kit!  So, there I was, with a punctured tire and no way to repair it, out in the middle of the vast Willamette Valley farmland.  Nothing for it but to start walking.

I walked several miles before I saw a church steeple, a grain silo, and some sleepy buildings sitting in the July sun.  The little village of St. Paul was up ahead.  There didn't look to be anyone about; it was a hot day, and I imagined most folks were indoors, staying out of the sun.  I wondered if there would be anywhere I might be able to get my bike tire patched.

As I approached town from the north.  I passed a ramshackle, old house on the side of the highway.  It had at one time been a fine, old manor, but was now a dirty white house with a cluttered and unkempt front yard.  There were chickens hunting and pecking in the grass, a dog or two asleep in the shade, and cats prowling around the periphery.  As I walked past, a screen door on the side of the house banged open to produce a wiry man with light, curly hair, dressed in a tatty shirt and short khaki trousers.  He looked to be in his mid-forties.  I knew him for a hippie the minute I saw him.  He glanced at me curiously as I passed. 

I had gone only a short way further down the road when I heard the clatter of a rattletrap VW bus behind me.  As it came alongside, it slowed.  I looked to see the St. Paul hippie in the driver's seat.  The passenger window was down and he kept pace with me as I walked.  "Wanna race?" he asked, grinning.

"You know someplace I can get my bike tire patched?" I asked.

"Prolly have to go to Salem," he said.  "Nothin' here in town for ya."

This was not welcome news.  Salem was another 15 miles at least.  My disappointment must have shown.

"I'm going to Salem, now," said the hippie.  "Whyn't I give you a ride?"

"That'd be great!" I said, much relieved.

He pulled the VW over and jumped out.  "Let's get you loaded up," he said.  There were several dogs asleep in the back of the van.  One of them, a puppy, yelped in indignant protest as we wrestled my bike inside. "You're alright.  Go back to sleep," said the hippie.

We got things arranged and I hopped into the passenger seat.  "Name's Willard," he said as he sat at the wheel.  We shook.  "Good thing I saw you," he said.  "St. Paul's a one-hippie town and I'm it."

We kept the windows down as we drove toward Salem.  Willard drove slowly.  He talked a lot.  The dogs napped indifferently in the back.

"How is it for a hippie out here in St. Paul?" I asked him.

"Took a while," he said.  "But they're used to me now.  When I first came here, they didn't like me much.  There's an ol' boy here, Kenny Gills.  He's what some might call a redneck.  He's the toughest guy around.  He used to give me grief, 'til I stood up to him one night in the bar.  He asked me if I had any leaf, which, of course, I did.  When I showed it to him, he grabbed it out of my hand and put it in his pocket and tried to ignore me.  But I kept after him.  'You gonna do me like that, Kenny?' I asked him.  'You really gonna do me like that?' 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he kept sayin'.  So I said, 'Kenny, go f*ck yourself.'  Don't remember much else from that night.  He cleaned my clock good, but I saw him the next day.  He had a mark or two on his face from where I'd tagged him.  Nobody gave me sh*t after that."

"What is it you do out here?" I asked him.

"That's my ol' lady's house where you saw me," he said.  "She's retired military.  We've got a big garden, and a whole bunch of animals that we take care of."

"What kind of animals?"

"We got a couple goats and some pigs.  Chickens.  Cats.  Dogs."

"You like animals, eh?"

"Love 'em," he said.  "That's our family.  My ol' lady's a special gal.  Folks around St. Paul come to her when their animals get sick.  We take 'em in, get 'em healthy."

"Is she a vet?"

"Naw.  Just gives 'em love.  Lotta times that all they need."  He went on, "She's a giver, my ol' lady.  There's some of the kids around town come hang out at our place.  Kids who don't fit in well, or are just lookin' for something different from what they know.  Most of 'em never seen anything like us."

"There's a lot of hippies in the Valley," I protested.

"Not in St. Paul, there's not," he said.  He smiled his crooked smile.  "Like I said, it's a one-hippie town.  Little smoke?"  He produced a joint, held the steering wheel steady with his knee while he got it lit.  He took a toke and passed it to me. 

Eventually, we arrived in Salem.  Willard pulled into a gas station to fill up.  He pointed out a bike shop nearby as we pulled my bike out of the back of the van.

"Well, thanks, Willard," I said.  "Want some money for gas?"

"Sure, if you want to give me some," he said.  I handed him a five.

"Keep the faith, brother," he said.  Grinning.  He was always grinning.

We shook hands and I set off on my way.

Hippies.  There are hippies; and there are people who like to hang out with hippies.  Willard, whom I have not seen since that one short encounter 14 years ago, is a hippie.

Me?  I just like to hang out with them.

A few summer pix

Mean ol' Mount Hood

Last week, perennial Multnomah County Sheriff candidate Andre Danielson and I went tramping around on the knees of Hood the Heartless.  Specifically, we hiked up around Lost Lake.

Uprooted tree

I'm trying to convince my fastidious and largely unadventurous (but still adorable) wife to go camping, and so Andre and I took a drive up there to scout the place out.  Now that I have a method for powering the Amazing Snore Machine in the outdoors (see "Breaking Camp" in Pt. IV of the OCF 2010 series), I'm all enthused about going back to nature.

Stump

So, today, since my creative juices are rather depleted, I thought I'd just post a few photos of the beautiful sites.  Enjoy!

Lost Lake flora

Home to woodpeckers

Northern shore

Andre and the cedars

OCF 2010: Journey home (Pt. IV)

Another tomorrow in the brief dusty march completed.  A sojourn through the hippie duality of hedonism and social awareness:  Oregon Country Fair, 2010.  

• Read Part I here.
• Read Part II here.
• Read Part III here.

Sunday morning came, and it was time to go home.  I was ready.  I missed my African girl.

Breakfast crew at Blazing Salads

Breaking camp
That morning I asserted my S.O.P. status (see Part I) and was absolved of perimeter duty.

When I told Ed, the night before, that I was going to sleep in, he looked askance at me.  "It's an unwritten law that the people that work are the only ones that get shoe-horned in for next year," he warned.

"C'est la vie, Ed," I replied.  "Whatever will be, will be."

He looked disappointed, but, you know, as much as I love the Fair, I'm not sure I want to commit an entire week of precious vacation time on it every single year.  I'd told Mark Freeman as much. 

I walked in to the Fair at about 7am and moseyed up to Watergate to say "hi" to Mark and some of the other crew, then went down and got eggs and bacon from Get Fried Rice.  I was disappointed with breakfast;  I found it bland.  The best breakfast that I encountered at the Fair came from Blazing Salads.  They had a bowl of granola and oatmeal, with lots of fresh fruit (blueberries, raspberries, cherries, apricots) all sliced up in it, the whole thing covered in yogurt.  Delicious!  (Also, potent!  Ahem.)  And the wonderful folks at Blazing Salads even indulged me by sparing the bananas when they dished me up!

Karen, the can-do woman

Working up to escape velocity

I strolled back to camp and slowly began packing up:  Guitar, lantern, flashlight, extra food, paper towels, dirty clothes, battery...  Ah, yes!  The battery.  A heavy, monstrous thing, about two-thirds the size of a car battery, that would push 2 Amps for up to 30 hours.  I used it to power the Amazing Snore Machine and it worked like a charm, running out of juice just as I awoke on Sunday morning.  Four nights of apnea-free sleep on a single charge!  (Gratitude to my darling wife, who found the battery store and dragged me to it.)

I finally broke down my tent and hauled everything out to the grass in Far Side meadow.  But Fair bureaucracy still had one obstacle to place in my path before I left.

We were informed that, due to the agreement Fair had made with ODOT (refer to Part I), no one would be allowed to drive his motor vehicle in to Far Side to load up until 6pm.  I took the news with resignation and with no real worry.  If there is any one trait that all hippies have in common, it is an innate ability, driven (I believe) by psychological need, to overcome, out-maneuver, and work around regulations of any kind.  I just had to sit back and watch it work.

There is none better at finding a way to get things done than my Fair friend, Karen.  (Oddly enough, I've known Karen for 7 years and I don't think I've ever learned her last name.)  When she learned the bad news about car access she got things moving.  She sent her husband, Tim, up to the gate by the highway to talk to the gate-keeper, while she started lobbying Mark Freeman to find a solution.  She had everything humming along nicely when Tim returned with the news that the gatekeeper had relented and would allow us to drive in.

Clockwork, I tell you.

Pokin' along on the dusty road

Long dusty journey
I still had to walk to Outta Site parking lot, but that was no big deal.  If the bureaucracy had yielded, three miles of walking in the hot sun would be a breeze.  Besides, I had to walk through the Fair one last time, to get to my car, and that is always a good thing to do.

As I wandered down the Magic 8, I took a good long while to savor everything the Fair has to offer:  the smells of food and Nag Champra and patchouli and ganja, the streaming music that came first from one direction and then another and then sometimes would meld in some magical spot, blissfully confusing your ears.  And, of course, the sights.

Village Restaurant, with delightful barrista

Fair face

Vegetable people

Dade:  "Mind if I take your picture?"  Top Hat:  "So long as you don't mind if we look damn sexy while you do."

Do you like my hat, sir?

Stone Age Smurf hunter-gatherers

By the time I got to my car, I was hot, tired, and happy.  I got in, started the air-conditioning, drove back to the Far Side and loaded up my gear.  Then I went around and said goodbye to all my crew mates.  Another good year, all.

On the drive home, I putt-putted along in the slow lane, content to drive at the pace of the vehicle in front of me.  I was unflappable, peaceful, content.  After a time, I got home.  And then I got unloaded.  And then I shaved and took a long shower.  And then I waited for my African girl to get home from work, so I could tell her all about it.

This concludes the OCF 2010 series.

OCF 2010: So, how was the Fair? (Pt. III)

Another tomorrow in the brief dusty march completed.  A sojourn through the hippie duality of hedonism and social awareness:  Oregon Country Fair, 2010.  

• Read Part I here.
• Read Part II here.

Enough preamble, what?  Let's talk about the Fair experience this year.

Main Stage

Music

The Fair is always full of great music, whether it is a name band on Main Stage (this year's ensemble included The Gourds and Portland's own Tap Water) or a roving minstrel playing along the path in the Magic 8.  This year, I saw very little music, but there are two performances that stand out in my memories.  

Young rappers

The first of these, was an impromptu rap performed by three young men in the area just off Main Stage.  One of them laid down a fantastic rhythm while the other two traded raps.  The performance was as live as it gets, totally unrehearsed, made up as they went along, and they never lost beat nor faltered as they commented on the Fair, on passers-by, on the weather, on societal issues, and hippie-dippy love.

Eventually, they attracted the attention of a stunning young woman with clear, mocha skin, and an unruly blonde-brown afro in a revealing skintight dress.  She boldly stood directly in front of them, one hip slung to the side, admiring their skill.

Thought I, "This will cause them to hiccup."  But they kept rolling.  They even incorporated their new admirer into their rap:

"I like the way that you wear your dress, and, and, and,

I like the way it makes my head a mess, and, and, and..."

The woman smiled, an honest, closed-lip smile.  I got the feeling that, while she was definitely impressed, the lads were going to have to work harder than that.

Plea to the Four Winds

The other musical performance that stuck with me was the Native American prayer dance I witnessed on Sunday, as I was leaving.  A Native American shaman blessed the Fair with a peace and harmony dance.  His face was painted black and white; he waved an eagle feather to the Four Winds.  The drum circle behind him cried out their haunting prayers in warbling coyote voices, while the dead, relentless beat pushed on.  It was a stirring experience.

"Man, why can't it just be this way all the time, man?  'Cause, ya know, man, it's love, man.  Ya know, if people would just love each other, man..."

Servant of Love in the Hippie-dippy Love Cocoon

Saturday evening, I ventured out of camp and into the Fair.  In an astonishing display of initiative (all things considered) I managed to time my entry at the top of the "Magic Eight" such that I arrived in the wake of the Sweep.  Very dusty, it was, but the crowd was as thin as it would ever be.

My objective was to grab a bowl of Stir Fried chicken yakisoba, take a look around, then head back to camp and relax.  I got my heaping bowl of yakisoba with the tender, slow-cooked chicken (delicious!) and looked around for a place to eat.

At a nearby table, sat two men.  One appeared to be what one imagines when one thinks of the South Valley country hippie:  a weather-worn fellow, with long iron-gray hair pulled back in a ponytail underneath a mangled straw hat.  He wore khaki shorts, sandals, and a bright tie-dyed tee-shirt, splotched with red, blue, yellow and green.  His face was well-wrinkled and tan, making it difficult to estimate his age.  He could have been 45 or he could have been 65.

Seated across from him was another man.  This fellow was perhaps in his late 40s or early 50s.  His sole vestment was a pair of cut-off shorts.  He was in excellent physical condition, as I could plainly see.  His skin, from the top of his bald pate to the tops of his feet, was evenly browned in a healthy tan.  He was barefoot, with one foot tucked up under his rump.  His hands were folded on his knee.

"You fellas mind if I join you?"  I asked, with a smile.

"Well, I'd mind if you didn't!" responded the country hippie, with a broad, sincere grin.

"I'm Dade," I said, extending my hand.

"I'm Charley," replied the country hippie.

We shook.

Charley's companion looked my way and smiled a beatific smile.  His pupils were as wide as saucers.  Aha! thought I.  This fellow has recently embarked on the Long Solemn Dream.

Charley saw my yakisoba and excused himself to go get a bowl of his own, leaving me and the dream voyager alone at the table.

"You know," says he, "as a first-time Fair-goer, it feels good to be home."

Here we go, thought I.  I said, "What do you mean?"

"When you see love like this, you just know it is true and right," he said.  He was wrapped up tight in the hippie-dippy love cocoon. "Why can't people see it?  Why can't it be like this everywhere?"  He winced gently, thinking of all the unenlightened souls who are screwing up the world.

"First-time Fair-goer, right?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Well, I'm not trying to bring you down or anything, but I've been coming to this party for twenty years now.  One thing I've learned is that behind this veneer of social responsibility and all the peace, love, dope window-dressing, people are still people.  The good and the bad."

He looked at me with serene befuddlement, as if I were a speckled toad hopping across his picnic blanket.   But only for a moment.  I saw his eyes grow wider and more solemn as he sank even further into the Long Solemn Dream.  He blessed me with a tolerant smile.  "I choose to hang on to the love, brother," he said.

"Fair enough," I said, only vaguely aware of my own pun.  I finished my yakisoba and stood up to go wander.  I gave him a smile.  "Anyway, have a good Fair.  What was your name again?"

"My name is--"  He thought for a moment, then in a surge of enlightenment answered "--Servant of Love."  His passive, love-bombed, fully-dilated eyes met my own in peaceful defiance.  He rested his chin on his folded hands which, in turn, rested on his drawn up knee.

"Is that what you want me to call you?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"We'll talk again in 10 years," I said.  I gave him a wave, and set off to find some music.

I'm not smirking, you understand.  I've been there.  When one is in the grip of the Long Solemn Dream anything seems possible: our most cherished hopes about God and humanity and the benevolence of existence. That feeling, the one that comes with belief in a Universal Good, might even linger for a while, afterward.  But the human spirit is a sieve.  Eventually, it all leaks out and leaves you tired and dusty.

An ent at the Country Fair

Starry night on the Far Side

There is no surer sign of the passage of time than that on Saturday night, in lieu of attending the Midnight Show, in which all performers in the Fair take the stage for brief encore performances, the Watergate crew chose to pull lawn chairs out into the grass of Far Side field and admire the stars.

A dozen or so of us sat and star-gazed and relearned our constellations:  Big and Little Dippers, the North Star.  Myk Walker pointed out Scorpio.  Talk was subdued, but meaningful.  Kids were running all around us with glow-sticks.  Mark Greinke was tossing a glowing Frisbee around.  Someone nearby was projecting a laser light show onto the trees at the edge of the field. 

There was a time, not so long ago, when our camp would have been empty, everyone having gone in to the Fair to see the Midnight Show, and would remain empty until nearly dawn, when straggling, loaded hippies would creep back to their tents to catch a few minutes of sleep before Sunday morning shift began. 

And I guess maybe it means I'm settling in to middle age, but I didn't miss the heavy drinking and partying and staying up all night.  I found that I much preferred the stars.

To be continued...