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

Peace from P-town, Summer 2010

Having a snooze at Portland's Own Waterfront "Open-Air" Hotel

The conservatives are thrashing pitifully, right now, wrestling with their racist demons, but, you know, I'm just not in much of a mood for ridiculing people.  The itch that ridicule scratches is poison oak of the soul.  Admittedly, there are times when one simply must scratch.  But scratching only leads to inflammation.  Today, I'll just express a sincere wish for success to the non-racists in the Tea Party.  I'm afraid I hold out small hope that they can succeed.

Hemlock up at Lost Lake

The Oregon Country Fair gifted me with a decidedly more serene demeanor.  (The Fair can do that.)  Immersing oneself in hippie culture is the opposite of indulging in ridicule.  It is the aloe balm to heal ridicule's scratching.  Hippie culture encourages expressions of creativity, individuality, and, yes, love.  Ridicule is anger finding vent.

Sandal-tanned feet:  a sure sign that summer has finally arrived

The creative well is run rather dry at the moment.  I've been putting out a lot of material lately.  My usual filler in times like these is politics.  But I simply cannot bring myself to dive back into all of that negativity.  And so, I'm reduced to writing these meandering nothings that I'm actually a bit embarrassed about.  But in order to write, you must write.  So I write.

Lost Lake sky

This post reminds me of a joke Ed Knoph told during our drive down to the Fair.  It went like this:

A farmer had a field near a stream, where lived a cow.

One day, the cow spent two hours scratching herself on a fence post.

The next day, she waded in the stream, eating water weeds.

The day after that, the cow wandered up to the woods at the back of the field.

The day after that, she laid in the grass all day.

Shall I go on?

Les femmes de la route

Remember that night in Stockholm
When, boldly you held my gaze
Brazen and lovely,
Deliciously lusty,
But the train swept me off on my way?

Remember those days spent in Prague
When I moped after you like a child
When Catholic creed
Kept you deaf to my need
But your kindly rebuke was quite mild?

Remember our time on La Rambla
When we never were sure of the line?
So we dined at Quatre Gats
And we put away that
And had us a wonderful time!

SoML: Chasing the storm (Pt. II)

Note: At long last, this is the second episode of a fictional story I've been stewing for a good, long while. Future episodes will appear on this blog under the label "The Sons of Magda Lane." No set schedule, just as it occurs to me. Feedback is welcome.

Read Part I here. 

"God, you've killed me!"  The words chased Vinnie as he sped blindly down the path along the east side of the river.  As fast as he ran, they kept pace, echoing in the blank, red space behind his eyes.   

Vinnie's breath came in great, lunging gasps.  He fled mindlessly, swept forward by the horror of the vision he had left behind.

The young woman lying, just as he had left her, flat on her back, her head raised to examine the wreckage of her body, the blood running freely out from beneath her onto the sun-scorched pavement at the intersection that came off the bridge.  Her face bore an expression of deep, confounding hurt, as if she had been betrayed by an old, dear friend.  "God, you've killed me!" she wailed.

A few minutes earlier, she had been a beautiful young woman with a pearly smile and skin the color of  fresh milk.  Her eyes flashed from shadow under the wide brim of her flower-adorned hat.  She smiled at Vinnie as he waited the light, tapping his fingers on the wheel, impatiently, muttering under his breath.  Despite his sour mood, he shot back a carnivorous grin as if to say  "Careful, girl!  I'm a wolf!"

And then, he had seen the low, black sedan slide past, from right to left on the street before him.  The driver leaned back in his seat, relaxed, confident, one hand toying with the steering wheel, the other dangling out the window, palm open and facing the wind.  The long, hollow cheeks, the sharp chin, the slender neck, and the jet black, lanky straight hair that gathered about the shoulders were as familiar to Vinnie as his own two hands.  Stormy!

Vinnie had not seen his older brother for nearly two years.  Stormcloud Lane had disappeared in the late fall of 2008.  Disappeared suddenly, without warning.  Even Magda herself had not known where he had gone.  Or pretended not to know.  One could never be sure, with Magda.  Whistler may have known something, too, but when Vinnie asked him about it, Whistler's face turned to cold ash.  "Let it lie, man," he had said.  "Stormy'll be back someday.  But right now, just let it lie.  Let it lie."

And there was Vinnie, waiting at the light so he could drive across the Hawthorne Bridge to collect his mother, pluck her out of whichever of her numberless schemes she was embroiled in:  scheming, fascinating, mystic Magda Lane.  Vinnie was totake her to the run-down motel on 82nd Street where the family had set up headquarters for the stay in Portland.

Small wonder, then, that the pretty girl with the milky skin evaporated from Vinnie's mind as he saw his idolized older brother passing before him.  Driving by, lazily, as if he, Vinnie, did not exist.  Small wonder that, when the light turned green, Vinnie stomped on the gas pedal and cut across two lanes to make the left and follow the black sedan.

He felt the surge as the passing gear engaged, the tires shrieked and the car lurched.  His eyes were already scanning the street ahead of him, looking for the sedan, so he did not see the girl taking her long loping steps across the street.  Then she was bent over the hood of the car, her hat flying up and over the windshield, her arms stretched out, hands grasping.  Her eyes went wide with horror; her lips formed an astonished "O."  Vinnie's foot was on the brake, his shoulders pushed back into the seat.  Somewhere in his mind, a child bade him farewell and fled his soul, forever.  Then, the girl was flying away, rising into the air seeming to spring backward like a startled frog. 

The car shrieked to a halt and Vinnie exploded out the door.  "Jesus!  Jesus!" he roared.  He ran ahead toward the girl, where she lay.  Then, he could not speak.

She was on her back.  Her mouth worked for a moment.  Her eyes flitted onto him, then back at her body, lying perfectly straight, hands at her sides, feet together.  Her midsection appeared sunken, like the dusty, dead pit above a collapsed cavern.  "God," she wailed, "you've killed me!"

Vinnie had stood stone still for an instant.  Someone nearby screamed.  He heard car doors opening behind him.  And then he ran.  First, he ran to the left, away from the river.  And then, blind with terror, seized by a panicked, insane notion, he spun around and ran back toward the river.

And so he ran.  He reached the river and turned left, southward, sprinting along the black-topped bicycle path.  The day was hot and there were few people.  But Vinnie saw no one and nothing as he ran.

In time, though he was young, and lithe, his heart and lungs could give no more without rest, and he slowed.  As his body relented, his mind began to wrest control from the panic.

I must hide! he thought.  His breath came in ragged gasps.  I need time to think!

The path ran along the river for miles, Vinnie knew.  Eventually, it would come to the Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge.  But it was too far.  He couldn't stay on the path that long.

Sweat ran down into his eyes.  He wiped at it angrily with his sleeve.  Stop! he told himself.  Stop for a minute!

Warehouses stood to his left, the Willamette River slid northward to his right.  No one was on the path; he was alone for the moment.  As he gasped for air, he listened.  No sirens, no shouts.  Only the hiss of traffic on the overpass above him.  Only the gentle lap of waves against the shore.

He was crying, then.  Crying for fear, the way he would cry as a child, with his face buried in Magda's breast.  What have I done?  What have I done?  Mama, Mama save me!

The girl's face, the hurt in her voice, as if she were a a schoolgirl treated cruelly by her best friend, assailed him as he stood in the middle of the path, blubbering.  He doubled over, wracked with sobs.  He didn't notice the figure who approached from his left.

Her walk was like the prowl of a lioness on the hunt.  Her shoulders and hips swayed; her mane of auburn hair brushed her shoulders.  Her eyelids hung low over her eyes.  Tiny creases at their corners deepened as she regarded the boy before her.

She walked to within arm's length of Vinnie, then stood at his side, arms folded across her middle, waiting for him to notice her.

He jumped when he saw her, his arms rising to cover his face.  Then he saw that she was regarding him with a patient, amused expression.  No pity, but maybe a hint of compassion in the clear, gray eyes.  She was older than he, by a decade or so:  in the early bloom of adulthood.  One corner of her full-lipped mouth was pulled back in a sardonic smile.

Vinnie calmed, lowered his arms.  He squinted at her.  "Tara?  Is that you?"

"It's me, kid," she said.  "I've been waiting for ya.  Come with me."

"But how...?  But, Mother is waiting and I..."

"Come on, kid," she said.  She stepped close, wrapped herself around his arm and pulled him gently in the direction of the warehouses standing off behind her, quiet and dark as mausoleums.  "The world is full of mystery.  I'll handle your mother."

To be continued...

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...

OCF 2010: Working at the Fair (Pt. II)

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.

Being part of a working crew at the Oregon Country Fair comes with both privileges and responsibilities.

The privileges are obvious.  Working crew get to stay past the Sweep and enjoy the Fair after the general public has gone home.  Working crew generally camp at the various campgrounds on the periphery of the fairgrounds.  After completing a shift, working crew are awarded Fair "scrip:"  vouchers redeemable at the various food vendors in the Fair.

The responsibilities are that each member of a working crew must work during the Fair and must behave according to Fair decorum.  (Trust me, people, it's minimal.)

Watergate crew, assembled for deployment, 5:30am

Perimeter security

I'm part of Watergate crew, which is responsible for maintaining fairground perimeter security from 6am to 10am on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings.  We are also obligated to help with Sweep on Thursday and Friday evenings.

Perimeter security involves sitting in a camping chair at some point on the fairground perimeter and guarding against people trying to sneak into the Fair from the surrounding fields and woods.  Each point on the perimeter has a name:  Chickadee Gate, the Y, Big Chair.

Big Chair is a mosquito-infested patch of ground that sits on the western bank of the Long Tom River, right at the edge of a mown field.  The landowner rents out plots for outside campers (campers who are not part of the Fair).  The site is so-named because, years ago, there was a tall, lifeguard chair that sat at the edge of the trees, made out of fence posts and odd planks of lumber.  The chair has long since rotted away, but the post has kept its name over the years.

Big Chair, back in 2003

Every time I've sat Big Chair, I've caught people trying to sneak into the Fair.  Every single time.

They use various techniques.  One time (was it 2004?) a pretty young hippie girl came and sat down with Ed and I as we were guarding the perimeter.  She initiated some friendly banter, told us about her recent experience at the Rainbow Family gathering and then innocently asked if she could have a peek in the Fair.  "Sorry, sister," I said.  "Even if you got past us, there are two more checkpoints you'd have to pass."  She looked a little hurt.

Another time, four young men with long tangled hair and lanky, thin torsos tried to rush past me.  They were walking very fast with long, purposeful strides.  They waved at me as they passed.  I could see that they didn't have wristbands, but they were moving full tilt for the path.

I said, "You guys aren't going to make me get out of my chair, are you?"

One of them hesitated, then stopped.   And then they all stopped.  Their shoulders slumped and they turned around and headed back the way they came.  "Sorry, guys," I called after them.  "Better luck next time."

Although I didn't sit Big Chair this year, others in my crew did, and they had an appalling tale.  Apparently, some attractive young hippie women were camped nearby.  Every morning they would rise and make a plea to be allowed entry.  Of course, they didn't prevail.  But they began to find creative ways to entice compliance.

The black waters of the Long Tom

On Sunday morning, the last day of the Fair, they thought that a little dip in the Long Tom River, in full view of the two security crew, might provide visual appeal and thus soften resolve.  So, they disrobed and jumped into the Long Tom, whose waters consist of farm run-off and cow manure.  Ed was one of the security personnel on-hand, and he tried to convince them that they were risking their health, but perhaps they deemed that the risk was worth free entry into the Fair.  Alas, their ploy didn't work.  I just hope they didn't get sick.

Muster of the Sweep, Thursday night

The Sweep

Anyone who has attended the Fair knows Sweep.  It occurs at the end of the day when Fair security assembles at the top of the Magic 8 and forms a line and sweeps down through the fairgrounds.  Fair-goers that brandish the all-important identification bracelet are allowed past the cordon.  Those without are swept out the Fair entrance.

There can be hard feelings when people are informed that they must leave.  But resistance is useless.  Fair crew are effective in passively persuading people to comply.  When a person protests, that person is surrounded by security staff who simply stand in the way and refuse to allow the person to go further into the Fair.  Eventually, the person gets frustrated, turns around, and heads for the exits.  Sometimes they cuss at you first, though.

The Sweep is what lends the Fair its mystique, I think.  When I was a Fair tourist, before I became part of a crew, I was convinced that the bacchanalia and good-natured hedonism must surely be taken to a whole new level after hours, when the public was gone.  But that's not really the way it is.

Nighttime at the Fair

After the Sweep, the Fair goes on as it has during the day (which is to say, there is a lot of excellent live music, great food, nudity, arts and crafts, and dope-smoking.  It's just that it is less crowded.  (Veteran Fair Folk will wait out the hot, dusty day in their campsites, then enter the Fair right behind the Sweep, when the evening starts to cool and the crowds are thinnest.)

For crazy party people, the new "scene" seems to be the off-site campgrounds that surround the Fair.  Rumors swirled about a place called Darling camp, which is one of the off-site campgrounds.  According to the "in" crowd, that was where the "real" party was raging.  Enjoy, party people!

Light of late afternoon striking the canopy

Camp life

The best part of the Fair, of course, is the people.  Oregon Country Fair is one of the best places on the entire Pacific coast for people-watching.  It's easy to make friends, to strike up conversations.  Fair decorum urges that everyone put on their friendliest faces, that everyone be receptive to everyone else.  That's my favorite part:  encountering people along the way, whom you don't know from Adam, smiling at them, striking up a conversation, talking, sharing, laughing.  That vibe is the heart of the Fair.  And even though the Fair has grown (and become corrupted by growth), that essence of openness and friendliness is still alive.

Watergate crew this year consisted of some 2 dozen people, including S.O.P.s (please see Part I) and children.  We're located in the trees that border an open field known as Far Side.  Some of my crew have been part of the Fair since the late 80s.  As one might expect, there are rivalries and disputes within the crew.  This year was especially challenging because our crew had been allocated only 2 on-site parking permits instead of the usual 5.  Any time a society, even a micro-society like our Fair crew, goes from a condition of resource plenitude to resource scarcity, frictions will arise.  But my crew is blessed to have an imperturbable leader in Mark Freeman, whose calm demeanor keeps a damper on things.

And, I must say, there are many people in my crew whom I greatly enjoy.  John Eliot and I talked for hours about movies, books, God, and philosophy.  (But, tell me, John, does the coin have any say?)  Ed Knoph is an astute observer of humanity, fully steeped in knowledge of Carlos Castaneda and Mesoamerican shamanism.  The Nixons, Rick and Tracy, and their two sons, Cole and Luka, are charismatic and positive.  Jim and Susie Dailey always set up a nice, communal area that provides a point of congregation.  And there are few people I know who can approach Dave Zimmerman when it comes to constructing a well-organized, functional campsite.

Camp-mate Tracy Kloster, sporting the tee-shirt she created as a tribute to her father

One of the best camp experiences I had this year was playing guitar with young Nick Eliot.  Nick is 15 now, but when I first joined Watergate crew, he was only 8 years old.  Back in 2003, I had brought my guitar (of course) and I played in camp.  Nick really seemed to enjoy it and he eventually started playing himself.  Over the years, I've watched him develop, and he's become a really good guitar player.  This year, Nick and I sat down together and worked out a few tunes.  I haven't been playing much in recent years, but when Nick and I played, I found his enthusiasm contagious.  It was the most fun I've had playing guitar in a good long while.

Oncar (seated at left) and his marimba band

Oncar's marimba band performed their annual concert for Far Side again.  Oncar is another of the Fair's Very Important Persons.  He leads the crew that is camped next to us.

An important thing to note, I believe, is that, despite the public perception, the Oregon Country Fair is not a crazy, drug-infested orgy.  Yes, there is drinking.  Yes, there is drug-use.  Yes, there is nudity.  And, yes, there is a lot of ganja smoking.  But folks, it is no more than what you would find at any other campsite in America.  And that's the truth, so far as I can discern it.

The only real distinction that I can make between the Oregon Country Fair and any other fair is that people are encouraged to make spectacles of themselves.  It's the costumes and the personae that people adapt specifically for the Fair that give it flavor.  But I'll write more about that later.

To be continued...