Rainbow Summer - 1998

I figured I would post some of my other writings onto my blog page. This is an attempt I made at amateur journalism back in 1998...

Springerville. A sleepy town nestled on the foothills of eastern Arizona’s White Mountains. Summer settles lazily on Round Valley as the locals prepare for another busy season. Since environmental concerns ended the logging industry, the community has relied more on tourists coming for the campgrounds, trails, game and fish provided by nearby Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest, the largest stand of ponderosa pines in the world. However, no one is prepared for this summer’s largest group of summer visitors - the Rainbow Family.

On June 16, 1998, I was filling up at the local gas station when the first fleet of VW buses arrives, spilling out the motley cargo of hippies adorned with dread locks, hemp strands and patches. Their skin is dark with grime, and that smell - a pungent mixture of sandalwood incense, marijuana, and body odor - soon fills the whole town as dozens of flowered school buses dominate the traffic. The gas attendant stares in disbelief or horror as the bare-footed bunch enter the convenience store.

This is not a summer the residents of Springerville are likely to forget as the Rainbow Family, a loose conglomeration of hippies from all walks of life, converges on a pre-selected site in the forest high in the mountains, west of town. This is the beginning of their national gathering, culminating on the 4th of July, and annual event since it’s inception in Colorado in 1972; the Family seeks out a different location each year where they can gather in the woods for meditation, prayer, and festivities. Essentially, it’s the largest pot party in the continental Unites States, and many Springerville residents remember the last time the Family chose the White Mountains back in 1979. Let’s just say that this is not what you would call a happy reunion. Many residents are in a state of alarm as the crowds arrive, and I found myself wedged between a group of people that I found harmless, if not inviting, and the community that I serve.

Remembering the 1979 gathering, Donna, a 30 year-old native states, “There was this guy in a hammock set up in the back of a pickup, and he was riding around town, totally naked.”

These are the types of memories the townsfolk have of the Rainbows. The major difference between the two events, however, is that in ‘79 only 3,000 showed up. This year, the number is expected to exceed 25, 000, nearly triple the populations of Springerville and it’s sister-city Eagar combined.

The White Mountains host a small hub of predominately Mormon communities and have remained bastions of the untamed West - pines, rolling mountains, lakes, rivers. The area typically draws week-enders coming up from Phoenix to escape the blistering, desert heat. In more recent years, the area is acquiring a light spiritual flavor, accented perhaps by the reverence the Apaches hold for these gentle, verdant peaks. Or maybe it can be attributed to the attention brought by Snowflake resident Travis Walton’s book “Fire in the Sky” that recounts his UFO abduction, and the film bearing the same title. Or perhaps it is because Sedona, Arizona’s New Age haven has become too much like Santa Fe, too commercialized. No one is certain why. Whatever the case, many people from all over the States - Christian fundamentalists and New Agers alike - have felt impelled to move here with little or no reason.

I was one of those people, always fancying myself as the bohemian type. At an idealistic 19, in tie-dyed splendor, I had trekked to Sedona, imagining that the summer of ‘89 was the summer of ‘69. Then, in 1995, married with children, I left city life behind - the crime, the pollution and chaos to settle a 40-acre homestead on the western slopes of the White Mountains, an area about which I knew next to nothing. All I knew is that I wanted a place where my children could grow up free from fear in clean air and with clean water.

My idealism was nearly shattered that first night when a strong wind came sweeping over the Mogollon Rim, and I tired to sleep in vain as our small single-wide rocked in rhythm to my mantra, “What the hell am I doing here?”

Legend has it that the Mormon pioneers had no intention of inhabiting this harsh wilderness but decided to rest until the wind abated.

We certainly felt like pioneers as we accustomed ourselves to our surroundings. So far off the grid, it would take a small fortune to bring electricity to our home, so we use candles for more than just ambiance. Cold winters, mud, hot summers, hurricane-speed winds. Anyone would call us crazy.

But these mountains bring a change over a person. Electricity became a luxury, not a necessity. Hobbies and gardening fill the vacuum left by television. You even start looking like a Rainbow.

I eventually began to work as a social worker for a local welfare agency.

We first heard news of the gathering late in April as my wife and I sat down to dine in a restaurant in nearby Show Low. Our waitress, a bright-eyed, 19 year-old named Erin asked our names.

“Cool hippie names, “ she squealed.

This struck us as funny, because our names, especially mine, are so obviously Mormon. Maybe it was the beard or my wife’s long hair.

“Are you going to the Rainbow Gathering this year in Springerville?” she asked.

Within three weeks, scouts for the Rainbow Family were hiking all over the area looking for a suitable location - secluded yet accessible, with enough space and water to accommodate thousands.

Instantly, the community flew into a hysteria. Town councils and community meetings were called to see what measures could be taken to prevent the Family from coming. Joint efforts were made between city government, local Forest Service representatives, Apache County Sheriff Department, Highway Patrol and local businesses to decide on how to handle the problem. The consensus was that the community could not handle that many people. Especially with such an undesirable element bringing such activity as drug-abuse, “spanging”, shop-lifting, loitering, indecent exposure and a whole host of other problems.

In short, the community made it very clear - the Rainbows are not welcome here!

Not everyone was so negative. One local paper quoted County Sheriff Art Lee remembering the 1979 gathering where he states that the Family left not so much as a cigarette butt upon vacating the site.

Nevertheless, hysteria augmented when on June 14, the Rainbow Family’s website posted the official location of this year’s event - a meadow south of Carnero Lake by Green’s Peak, elevation 9000 feet. The festivities would commence on June 28 and last until July 10.

Within hours, a special Forest Service task force pulled into town and presented themselves to the other organizations monitoring the gathering. They estimated that there would be an ecological strain on the forest created by the sheer numbers. They issued an official warning to the shanti sena - or Family elders - to vacate the area. The elders responded that they would not leave. There was even a question about the main water source near Carnero Lake - a privately owned spring that was being used by the kitchens in camp. Of course, the idea of the ownership of water is foreign to the Family. Local officials warned that if necessary, the National Guard would be called in, but ultimately everyone was forced to admit - the Rainbows are coming.

Within hours, flocks of hippies poured into the area from holding camps in Tuscon and Flagstaff where they had been awaiting confirmation of the gathering site.

Soon every conversation in town was filled with murmured stories as the locals came into contact with the Rainbow people. These stories seemed to take on mythic proportions. In other words, it was the same story told over and over again with only minor variations. I heard the stories a million times told by sober-faced residents recounting the evils committed by the foul hippies.

A hippie took a shit on the floor in the McDonald’s bathroom. Or was it Arby’s? A woman urinated all over the produce in Safeway so they’d have to throw it away, and she proceeded to the dumpster to claim it. Or was it the eggs at Circle K? A Rainbow was cited for bathing naked in someone’s flower garden. Or was it the lawn of the LDS church?

I later shared these stories with Rainbow friends who howled with laughter.

“Like I would eat food with piss on it,” says Steve from California.

As the sole welfare worker in Springerville, my office was soon flooded with people applying for public assistance. Many people were enraged that these homeless people could come in and apply for benefits and be eligible, but I always argued that food stamps were better than shoplifting. Besides, a five-gallon pot of lentil soup can only feed so many, and that is all that the Rainbow kitchens served. I did find myself torn, however, between state regulations and an element within the government that endeavored to prevent me from administering federal aid programs to the Rainbows. Professionally, I tried not to treat them any different than any other clientele, but I definitely received some pressure from some higher-ups to discriminate against them and use means in my power to deny them services. Fortunately, I had a good supervisor with an open mind. State officials had contacted social service agencies in Oregon, the state that hosted the Family last year, to obtain advice on how to handle the problem. We were told, “Make it as hard on them as you can. If you make it easy, you’ll only encourage them.”

In a sense, they were right. My caseload doubled, then tripled until I was overwhelmed. In desperation, I had to call in back-up social workers from near-by St. Johns, and we all created a public assistance assembly line with longhaired hippies passing through. At one point, with a dozen applicants in the lobby, one tall girl, with thick blond hair matted to her skull, grinned, “Are you the cool guy who’s giving away food stamps?”

I snapped, “Is that what you all are saying up there? If you’re going to spread anything, why don’t you tell people to go to Show Low? They’re fully staffed and better equipped to handle this many people. Here it’s just me!”

Little did I know that the Rainbows have a communication network that rivals that of the military. The very next day, my caseload dropped down to manageable levels. One man even stopped into my office to say, “There was a busload coming in to see you, but I sent them to Show Low.”

In my dealings, I found them to be kind, polite and friendly, and I became very skeptical of the stories that the locals had been spreading about them. In fact, some had used our bathroom to clean themselves, and afterwards a Rainbow named Shawn mopped our bathroom, leaving it much cleaner than it had been before they had used it, much to the surprise of my supervisor. She remarked, “That young man doesn’t know how much he tickled me.”

As the 4th of July approached, many locals like myself received much unwanted attention from those around us who mistakened us as Rainbows. Tony, my brother from Utah, walked into a parts store wearing loose clothing and huarachis and drew harsh looks.

My office became a microcosm of the gathering as Rainbows crowded around the front of my office to apply for services. One afternoon, a highway patrolman pulled up and got out to question many of the hippies standing around the doorway. Since I represent the state of Arizona in my office, I decided that it would be good PR to go forward and introduce myself. I approached the officer. He stood like an icon of masculinity with his cropped, gold hair and mirrored sunglasses. I extended my hand and introduced myself, along with my job title.

He crossed his thick arms and stared at my hand in disgust. “I don’t shake hands with you people.” He put his hand on his pistol butt and said, “That’s my gun hand. And I only use it if I’m going to shoot someone.”

I went weak in the knees. Here I’m in charge, and he thinks I’m a damn Rainbow. With shaking hands, I produced my ID badge to which he offered no apology. He just turned and strode to his cruiser, and the dust kicked up as he drove off. I turned to a nearby Rainbow.

“Did you see that?” I stammered. “Is this the way you all get treated?”

“Yeah, brother,” he grinned. “All the time. I don’t know why they’ve brought so many cops into this town. We’re no threat to anyone. The most we’d do is throw flowers at them.”

Feeling like I had been threatened, I called my supervisor. She laughed it off, “I think that you should think about this one, Moroni.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Maybe you should wear your beads only on the weekends,” she said in reference to a strand that I frequently wear.

As I drove home that night, I looked thoughtfully at the dirt road that wound up to Green’s Peak. It seemed that the drums were calling me. There were police cruisers parked at every intersection. Police from other parts of the state were put on special detail here in Springerville, much to the annoyance of many locals. Having a near perfect record, I got 4 tickets in two months. One local complained to one of the many news crews in town, “The Rainbows haven’t given us any problems. It’s all the damn cops!”

One morning, Raven, a tall, willowy limbed beauty with pierced lips and tongue, came into my office. She told me that they had been listening in on the police ban that morning. They had nearly called in the riot police because of an incident where a mounted officer had accosted a Rainbow. The hippie slapped the horse’s behind, and the horse reared, throwing the officer to the ground. When the policeman tried to take the fellow into custody, he found himself surrounded by thousands of angry hippies.

I, myself, crossed the line from observer to participant on Saturday, June 20. On weekends, my wife Martha and I usually dress down a little more than usual. We stopped at the local supermarket to pick up diapers, and I pulled out my checkbook. The cashier remarked coldly, “Is that a local check?”

I was angry, “Yes. I live here. I work here.”

She sniffed. “Well, I don’t know you.”

In the car, I turned to my wife and spat out an expletive, “She thought we were Rainbows!”

Then, after a moment, “Do you want to go to the Gathering?”

Soon, we were speeding up a thin, dirt road, gaining altitude into the pines and aspens. The road opened up into a meadow, and there it was.

Now, I’ve been in foreign countries and have experienced culture shock. But nothing prepared me for that mountain. It was a different world.

We passed the first car, and the occupants flashed us a peace sign. There was almost an animal quality about them. Mud caked their faces, and they seemed inhuman. Different from the rest of us. I had always considered myself the bohemian type, but I now realize that I never had been. This was the genuine article - the real thing. There were several buses parked in the woods, and this man with a beer in his hand stepped out in front of the car.

“Park over there,” his breathed reeked of booze. “Be careful not to run over the flowers.”

This is the infamous A Camp - “A” as in alcohol. The actual gathering is actually divided up into several sub-camps. No alcohol is allowed past A Camp, and it is notorious for it’s wilder denizens and drunken brawls. According to tradition, A Camp serves as a smoke screen for the spiritual interior of the gathering.

“Oh well,” he concedes after we barter for a better parking space with him. “Go on to Bus Village.

Bus Village is a lively camp with tents set up around the vehicles. People spread their blankets under shady trees and smoke pot or trade goods. In Bus Village, I ran into Sparrow, one of my clients, who insists on showing me his tent full of food.

“I just want to thank you what you did for me, man,” he hugged me as I prepared to leave.

I began wondering if maybe this was a conflict of interest for me to be up here. I nodded, “Thank the state of Arizona.”

He took me to a pot of a boiling green substance.

“You may not know this, but in Babylon I was a chef,” he stirred vigorously. “Cream of cilantro soup! Want some?”

We declined politely, and continued up the trail to Rainbow Village.

On the other side of the meadow is Welcome Home, which served as the information center for the whole group. There, one man with more dreads than actual body shook his head, “Bus Village is for old school. You should go to Granola Funk Express. We’re more theatrically minded. We’re even building a stage.”

After walking almost a mile down a rocky trail, we came to Main Circle, a large flower-freckled, grassy meadow. It’s still only Seed Camp, so only about 2,000 have gathered thus far. Most people are lounging on the grass smoking grass, but some are seriously working. Two teen-age girls are five feet underground, digging latrines, many others are setting up ramadas using stray timber, still others are laying PVC pipe from the spring to provide water for the kitchens. One man, who assisted in building the bridges across the creek, fiercely protects it from those who would wade through the cool waters.

“Pwotect the water!” he shouts in a voice that sounds like Elmer Fudd. “You’ll wuin the moss! Use the bwidges!”

Some are carefully removing patches of sod to make fire pits. The Forest Service has issued a fire alert, banning campfires except in the kitchen areas and restricting smoking to designated areas. People gather around the kitchens with bowls of hot soup; the kitchens usually serve a lot of soup. The Hare Krishna camp down the meadow is popular, because every night they serve a four course meal of vegetarian fare. After everyone eats, some return to work, others strike up an infectious rhythm on the drums.

There are many other camps. Kiddy Village offers activities and story telling for the children. A tall rainbow-colored flag marks Lost Tribe. Kenny Mac is bare-footed and wears a smile of genuine affection when he sees me.

“I was a medic in the Army for two years. Now I travel around with C.A.L.M. Camp and learn about herbs and medicine.”

C.A.L.M. is the first aid center, and they have mainly had complaints about people suffering from the altitude. One young man fell off a cliff and broke his leg. The healers at C.A.L.M. set his leg and put a cast on it. A bearded man runs into camp waving his walkie-talkie.

“Gigi just gave birth to a boy!” he shouts happily.

Down one path, my wife and I stumble across a co-ed shower strung up through the branches of a tree. Several happy, nude people bathed beneath the spray of water, gasping at the cold. It should have been arousing to see so much naked flesh pressed together, but there is a curious lack of sexuality about it. I noticed that, in the melee of sleek limbs, long hair and white buttocks, it was difficult to tell the difference between male and female.

I left Seed Camp with a couple of impressions. There was a lack of social distinction with the Rainbows. Most of the homeless had hitchhiked to Carnero Lake. Some drove in battered buses. Some arrived in Mercedes, but everyone looked equal on the meadow. I was also distraught by the lack of work ethic. Only a few were working, and most were lost in indolent bliss. But I guess this is a party. A big marijuana party. I saw less spirituality than I had expected and more partying. But maybe there is some Dionysian spirituality afoot here.

On the night of July 3, many take a vow of silence and agree not to speak for half a day. The morning of July 4, approximately 30,000 people gathered in the meadow for a period of silence, meditation and prayer to the unknown god, Mother Earth, Jesus, Buddha, whatever deity suits you. At noon, the silence was broke by a thousand voices humming, “OOOOHHHHHMMMMMM!” Then the drums began a steady throb in synchronicity with the heartbeat of the world. There was a procession and dancing. The dance continued until the evening when the sky rumbled and the first rain in two months poured down on the gathering. In joy, people raised their hands to the sky as the waves of rain poured down on them.

“We have been praying for rain!” shouts one woman.

At sunset, the colored arch of a rainbow hung in the sky. Later, the nearly full moon peered at the crowd through the dissipating clouds. To the Family, the 4th of July is a high point in the cycle of the earth, coinciding with the solstice. It is the best time to conceive, which often sparks lurid tales among the locals, who imagine a sexual free-for-all up on the mountain, the wild abandon of an orgy. (Which it is not.)

Raven offers a coy smile, “This is our covenant time.”

Within three days, people start to clear the area as quickly as they arrived. Orbit and Freedom, both girls wearing smiles of satisfaction on their faces, reflect on the gathering as they hitchhike to Utah. They are anticipating the smaller regional gatherings that will occur throughout the year.

“There’s even a talk of an all-sister gathering,” Freedom’s eyes sparkle behind her tortoise-shell glasses. “Can you imagine the energy there?”

Turtle hitches to Oklahoma. He is bitter about this year’s gathering.

“The cops sucked, the locals were rude, and there are nothing but ‘drainbows’ up on the mountain,” he fumes. “The Family is packing up and leaving the drainbows to do whatever the fuck they want.”

One girl from the Warriors of Light whines, “I don’t know why the locals don’t like us. We brought them this rain!”

I had to resist from telling her that the Arizona monsoon season starts on the 4th of July. You can almost set your calendar by it.

On July 11, I take my wife and kids back up to the gathering. My 4 year-old girl is excited to see them make rainbows. I’m about to correct her and tell her that the Rainbows really don’t make rainbows, but then I refrain myself. Already the camp is nearly empty. Only a few people are left for what is called ‘clean-up’. When we look at the meadow, I am shocked. The grass is trampled and looks bare, but already they are working at re-seeding the meadow. One man siphons water from a puddle back into the creek. Many others are collecting garbage and putting them in neat piles, the recyclable materials separate from the other garbage. No one is idle; everyone is working.

Enjoying the cool rush of air through the pine trees, my family and I stroll down the trail. An elder meets us on the trail; a man referred to as Grandfather. He looks like Gandalf the wizard, with a flowing, white beard and carrying a staff. Rather than directing his attention at my wife or me, he greets my children.

“Good morning, children,” his voice is soft. He presses his hands together and bows very low to them. Then he continues down the path.

This taught me more about the Rainbow Family than anything else did. He demonstrated a respect for all life and for the innocence of youth. Perhaps there is a marked lack of dogma among the Family, but they all desire a better world for us to live in. Certainly, that is a desire common to all mankind.

Lake, a man in his fifties, says, “I left a three bedroom, two bath home in California. I just walked away from it, and I live with no stress. You had better be careful or you might find yourself on the road with us soon.”

Others are just seeking experience. Raven tells me, “I’m not going to be a Rainbow all of my life. I want to go to school someday. This is something that I want to do with my life for now.”

As soon as they came, they are gone. The streets are empty, the townsfolk settle back into their circadian rhythms. Two days later, DEA performed the biggest drug bust in the history of Apache County - on local residents. So it was ourselves we had to fear - not the Rainbow people. It was as if the government was telling us, We couldn’t stop the Rainbows from using drugs, but we certainly won’t tolerate it from you.

On the last day, I sat in my cubicle, going through my paperwork, when, in the lobby, a dozen voices shouted in unison, “THANK YOU!!!!! WE LOVE YOU!!!!!”

I ran out into the lobby only to see a VW bus pulling out of the lot and turn out of town, fading into the distance.

There are already speculations about next year’s gathering. Some say Montana. Some say Wisconsin. As I drove home that evening, I wondered if, next June, I would hit the road.