Bellingham Zac passes a bag of blue chips and a bottle of Tapatio around, and we all eat and listen to the incredible story of how our paths have merged, from their end:
Stepha, that strong, strong lady, turned back the day before. Her bike seat wasn't conformed well to her body, and so she backtracked via hitching to Olympia, and has actually arrived in the forest ahead of Zac and Harrison. The boys attempted to keep going, but had very little luck hitching, and, on the way down a fairly daunting hill and a fairly daunting speed, Harrison's tire blows-fortunately, and amazingly, as they hit a flat stretch. Zac is telling this story energetically, and we're all in awe of how many signs and occurrences seemed to have been screaming at them to stop moving, to turn back and give up.
They spent the night in the open, and in the morning, I received their call.
Once again, I'm humbled by how strong this calling really was: a call to action, to compassion and to DO. Activism and action are not one and the same; on the contrary, one may be an activist by only moving the lips, paying lip service to the 'cause' one purports to champion, or to the type of person one claims to be. Action is the fulfillment of promise, an affirmation of purpose, and the essence of change. Harrison's head rolls sideways against the window; Puck curls up and Zac pets him about the ears. The windows are open, the breeze blowing in, and I know I'm present here. Still striving for authenticity... We all lapse into silence; admittedly, I'm thinking about my former partner. What will happen when I see him-for see him I will, because I know my luck, and that this is not simply an impromptu road trip-and have to interact with him again? I hope with all my heart that somehow things there will work out, but I'm just not sure.
Saturday, late afternoon, Gifford-Pinchot Nat'l Forest off Curly Creek Rd.:
Due to some seriously gratuitous speeding, we arrive at what looks like the right spot pretty early. We're all incredulous: the road is uphill all the way, windy and narrow in spots. I can't imagine the guys trying to bike up it, especially considering the huge distance they'd have already come. I'm so glad they didnt have to try. There are signs all over the place directing us not to park here, there and everywhere-even though we've pulled into a huge, public parking area. So, we arrive at a plan that splits our group up. 2 of us will take the heavy packs, filled with food, water, etc, and head toward the campsite, which we've been told is 3.5 miles into the forest from the access road. The other 2 will park the car, situate our valuables and carry up more supplies afterward. We're thinking we've got this on lock: the walk in isn't far, and we've heard it's a maintained road. After sitting in the car so long, we all want to get out and stretch ourselves and begin to move around. Walking sounds pretty good. Harrison and I elect to take the heavy packs and Puck and head in to find our tribe, Sushi Land. Zac and Abbey will follow.
At first it's not so bad. The sun is out and we're warm, walking along chatting. Since they'd planned on biking the whole way, Harrison doesn't have a pack, but rather is carrying 2 bike paniers clipped together over his shoulder. My pack weighs nearly 70 lbs, since I have most of the people food and water in it. We're in good spirits, happy to be out of the car and having arrived there, somewhat against all odds. There are cars lining the road as we go along, so we figure we will have company walking with us and be able to get there fairly quickly. Puck is on his leash smelling everything he sees. Occasionally cars pass us going one direction or another.
Saturday, sunset:
As we gain elevation, it gets colder. Harrison isn't having an easy time with his paniers, since they're not the same weight and are awkward to carry. We hike for a couple of miles, then stop to put on long sleeves and readjust the weigh load. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we hum. We've been walking for over an hour thus far, coming across small groups of people here and there. There are Westfalias and busses parked sporadically, tarped, painted and sporting fires beside them, some with pots of hot tea or something boiling away. The sun is beginning to set.
After a while it gets really difficult for Harrison to balance the paniers, and the 70 lbs I'm carrying is causing my back to cramp and my shoulders to chafe where the pack straps cut into them. I can't straighten up into a good posture anymore-we're going up hill steadily and I have to lean forward, throwing my upper body into the weight of the pack, since the hip belt isn't carrying enough of it. We attempt to trade loads for a while, but carrying the paniers with Puck's leash in the other hand is too awkward for me, and the pack isn't the right size for Harrison, who's 6'3" and lanky. It's starting to get colder as we ascend, snow piled beside the road. When the wind passes over it, I get goosebumps. Night is falling on us.
Mentally, I can tell we're both passing into the same space: that forceful, rigid mind-state that goes along with exhaustion, with accomplishing a task you can't rightly see the end of. We both estimate that it's been at least 3 miles already, so where is the entrance to camp? Where are all the people? We walk up to a campsite along the side of the road, and are greeted by a motley assortment: a couple of kids, a few women, and 2 guys who look like they've been partying pretty hard already. The kid offers us something to drink or eat, but we just want to get THERE. One of the guys tells us that we have at least another 3.6 miles to go, all the way up and around the ridge. Supposedly it's all downhill from there. I feel desperate. Harrison shrugs and says he's game to keep hucking, and there are no cars in sight, so we shoulder our gear again and keep going. Better to keep pushing onward than to sit down-if we sit down, we might not get back up. Harrison's Achilles has started bothering him more, and my knee begins to give under so much weight and fast walking.
Up top of the ridge, we pause for a while. The sun is setting. Mt. St. Helens is before us, mist below that, and a vast, vast valley shaded in gray, blue, and sunset pink beyond that, the river snaking out of sight, an expanse of serene beauty that stops the heart and revives the soul. "This was worth all of it," Harrison says. And I agree. We drink some water, say silent thanks for the vista before us, and continue on.
Saturday, after dark, somewhere outside Skookum Meadows:
It truly does become all downhill from here, but it also becomes darker and darker, until we are plodding along in complete blackness. It's gotten much, much colder, and now we're walking with an entire cadre of nomads. A couple of older guys shouldering swags. A young couple whose baby husky makes friends with Puck. Teenagers with black clothes on. A few times, vehicles stop and pick people up, but Harrison and I are too numb, in pain, and tired to stick our thumbs out anymore. We've had no luck hitching anyway, and we may as well keep walking. Talking intermittently with our compatriots, we gradually pick up more and more people, see more lights, and are told more often than not that we're "almost there", a concept we stopped believing in about 4 miles ago.
Finally, finally, finally, someone hollers "I see lights, you guys! That's it!". And sure as shit, it is: a large assortment of cars, trucks, vans and a couple of busses. Someone we can't see up ahead yells, "Welcome home! Lovin' you!": the Rainbow Family Gathering mantra, something I'll hear countless times for the next 2 days. We can't find the trailhead into the Gathering right away-it's blocked by all the cars, but eventually, someone steers us in the right direction. Unable to get into the packs and find headlamps, batteries or flashlights, we're at the mercy of those in front of us. It's muddy as all get-out, and I can hear people shouting to one another through the dark. Everyone is carrying lots of gear, some things as strange and unwieldy as kids' strollers, stand-up basses, pets in scarves, giant bundles of pots and pans. We're stumbling our way downhill over slippery roots and between trees we can barely see. I go down three times-Puck is pulling on his leash, knocking me off balance. Finally I just let him off it. Neither Harrison nor I really know where to find our tribe, the Sushi kids, but before we even reach the main meadow, we have to traverse this swampy, cold stretch, spanned by rough-cut, treacherously slick log bridges. It is a nightmare. Somewhere along the way, Puck flies by me in the darkness. Up ahead, I hear a splashing commotion: he's taken a header into the creek, which is deep and freezing cold.
We eventually pop out into the Marsh Meadow, surrounded by tall skunk cabbages. For a moment, again, we hold our breath: it's an incredible sight. For over a mile around the marsh, lights are glowing. In the haze, the poles of tipis, tents, geodesic domes crafted from tarps and frames, and banners can be seen. The pounding of drums from multiple drum circles is incessant. Every few minutes, a wild chant or haka fills the air. The sensation is one of unadulterated tribalism: a summit under cover of night attended by every conceivable Nation of Peoples, wherever they've come from, whomever they've chosen to represent.
Across the Marsh Meadow, we stop and fling the packs down. I have a foil packet of potatoes, onions and garlic in mine, and I pass it around. We're both starving. Even Puck eats the potatoes, which he normally wouldn't touch. There's a main message board somewhere that we're hoping to find a note from Sushi Land on; we have no idea where to find them, and the Gathering has swelled to 20,000 plus people, all camped in a huge radius spanning acres of land. No one at the information tent between one side of Rainbow and the other can tell us specifically how to find Sushi Land. We eat a bit more, then head off in a direction that seems right, passing briefly through the woods again until we come out into a huge clearing: the central meadow. There are people everywhere. Loud chanting and unintelligible yelling comes from a huge fire pit, where what looks like hundreds of people are dancing, drumming and circling around. Light flickers manically.
Harrison stops just as I do, and we stare at each other. "I'm overwhelmed right now," he says. "So am I," I say. "I don't know where to go from here..." A middle-aged woman stops near us and asks what we're looking for. When we tell her "Sushi Land Tribe", she looks dubiously at us. "It's going to take you at least another 3/4 of an hour to get there," she says. We have to walk all the way around the far side of the meadows, out onto another promontory. It's pitch dark. The terrain here is nothing but old sedge hummock-huge moguls and depressions pockmarking the landscape. You could break an ankle in the blink of an eye. Puck is shivering by my side, he can't decide if he wants to run and play with all the other dogs, or collapse. I suspect Harrison and I feel exactly the same.
We stagger closer to the drum circle, unsure of where to go from here. We'd so hoped to make it all the way to our tribe, and now neither of us can formulate a coherent thought. I'm tripping over my words. Harrison looks shell-shocked. The woman is amazed we made it-apparently we've hiked in much, much further than we thought we had. We end up pitching camp in the middle of it all, next to a camp called the Rainbow Crystal Kitchen. The tent straddles a huge hummock, myself on one side of it, Harrison on the other, Puck curled up wet and cold at our feet. By the time we get the tent up, I can barely feel my fingers. We roll into our sleeping bags, layers of clothes on, and try to sleep.
As I lie there trying to rest, I am in sensory overload. How much easier will this all be tomorrow, when it's light, and warm? We've lost Zac and Abbey and can only hope they've made their way to Sushi Land without us. I wonder about seeing my former partner. My heart aches in memory of the last time we saw each other. I've accomplished this much and we are HERE now, yet I feel empty somehow. The booming of the drums outside goes on and on and on.
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