As the sun set we drove a few miles between stands of trees along the cracked asphalt of Michigan Route 2. Holly pulled out the directions and attempted to decipher them; “OK, five miles south of Bruce’s Crossing you make a left onto Forest Road 29….”
      “That’s it.” and I slowed and turned onto the forest road, paved with asphalt that was even older and more cracked. After a hundred yards the car suddenly began to vibrate, rumbling like I was going over those warning bumps at a tollbooth.
      “What the hell? Did we get a flat?” Holly asked in amazement.
      “Nope.” I answered, noting that we were still level. Peering ahead in the growing dark I saw that the asphalt was gone, replaced by packed dirt mixed with choppy gravel. The road had recently been scraped, the asphalt torn up and the gravel roadbed mounded into a series of ridges and furrows, like a plowed field ready for planting. Piles of debris were heaped on either shoulder. I slowed to a walking pace as Holly flipped through the directions.
      “This is the right road.” she commented, her voice quavering slightly as the rumbling and bouncing went on. I tried to steer around the worst bumps, but had little success. “We’re supposed to follow it for four miles.”
      “What the hell did they do?” I asked, noticing a bulldozer parked to one side. We passed it at no more than ten miles an hour. Any attempt to speed up led to more violent joltings and made me fear that I would damage the car and leave us stranded. With each bump the remains of my coffee splashed away, but I had to grip the wheel with both hands so couldn’t have sipped it anyway.
      For the next half-hour we crawled along, gradually overtaking an old Buick and several other cars. At one point a burly pickup truck pulled up behind us and whipped past on the left, it’s driver not caring about the rough road. Clouds of churned-up dust hung in the headlight beams and made it seem like a foggy night. I clutched the wheel, steering by the dim taillights of the Buick ahead and guessing my way around the worst bumps.
      Eventually the ravaged road ended at another asphalt road that had not been torn up. Cars began to line the shoulders; at first only a few, then parked bumper to bumper along both sides. We drove past several miles of parked cars and then reached the gate.
      There was only one spot where a road intersected the gathering, and here a large arch had been erected out of logs. Someone had hung an old plank under it, painted with the words “Welcome Home!” in vibrant colors. In the dark, though, we couldn’t see the welcoming message.
      Several dozen people had congregated at the gateway, while cars pulled up and unloaded people and goods, then drove off. As we pulled up a bearded fellow in a cowboy hat waved a flashlight at me, indicating that I should pull in to one side of the gate. I did so and jumped out.
      “Hey, Brother!” the guy said, “You can only park for a few minutes. Don’t leave your car, or it will get pushed out of the way by about a hundred hippies.”
      “OK…can I leave my stuff here while I park?”
      “Sure…sure…” and he turned away, waving his flashlight at the next car.
      Holly and I began to pull our sleeping bags, tent, and other gear out of the car and heap it by the roadside. “I’ll wait here and keep an eye on our stuff while you park, OK?” she suggested, “Or should I start to look for a good spot for us?”
      “No, wait here for me, or I’ll never find you.”
      A short, gnomish looking guy with wild, curly hair suddenly popped up next to us. “Any beer?” he asked, eyes darting from Holly to myself and back.
      “Nope, ‘fraid not.” I told him.
      “No beer. No beer allowed, you have to leave it here.” he intoned, staring at me solemnly. Suddenly he grinned, yelled, “Peace, brother!” and disappeared into the crowd. It seemed that alcohol, at least, was prohibited.
      We left much of our gear in the car, taking only the stuff we’d need that night. Holly sat down on a sleeping bag and surveyed the mob, which mostly consisted of loud, boisterous young men. “Hurry back.”
      “Will do.” I answered, giving her a quick kiss and climbing into the Tomato.
      I was lucky enough to find a vacant spot about a mile from the gate. The road was raised at this point, and the grassy shoulder sloped fairly steeply into a ditch. I managed to maneuver into the spot, carefully locked all the doors, and hiked back to the gate.
      Holly was still sitting on the sleeping bag, and two guys in dirty jeans and flannel shirts stood before her. They fell silent as I walked up, eyeing me like an intruding dog. Holly rose and picked up her sleeping bag as I gathered up the tent and other gear; the two guys vanished into the crowd. We staggered through the gate into the Rainbow Gathering.
      A dirt road led into the woods, lined with tents nestled between trees along one side. On the other side a collection of vans, buses, and trucks covered a meadow, with more tents and tarps scattered among them. It was now fully dark, with a half moon providing just enough light to make you think you could see the road. More light came from occasional campfires on one side or the other, or from people walking along with candles or flashlights. I paused to dig my own flashlight out of my pack and switch it on, then shouldered my gear again. As I did so my flashlight swung up to shine into someone’s face.
      “Hey! Watch the hippie mace!” he shouted, and Holly laughed.
      “Sorry!” I called to him.
      “Welcome home!” he answered, as we slogged past him.
      After a half-mile the road intersected another dirt road, which we followed as it curved and began to descend a hill. Before us stretched a valley filled with the flicker of firelight, shouts, and laughter. Holly paused, looking down the slope, then turned off the road and began slogging along a trail that led along the top of the ridge. There seemed to be more trees here, and we quickly lost sight of the campfires. Occasional tents appeared on either side. After another half-mile we passed a small clearing in the trail, where a series of tarps had been tied to trees on either side to make a roof sheltering a cluster of camp chairs and tables improvised from boards and crates. A half-dozen people were busily working around the tables, which held an assortment of pots, kettles, camping stoves and other utensils. “Hey, Now!” one of them called as we slogged past.
      “Hello!” Holly called back.
      “Where you headed?”
      “Just looking for a quiet spot to set up.”
      “Well, just past us the trail goes on for three miles—plenty of spots back there.”
      “Thanks!”
      About a hundred yards past the kitchen Holly turned off the path, walking a few steps down the opposite slope, away from the crowded valley. The trees stretched above us, and we dropped our burdens at the base of a small maple. Then I began the familiar, but tedious, business of digging out the tent and setting it up in the dark. Holly began to blow up the air mattress, which sounds like a luxury but is absolutely necessary, unless you enjoy sleeping on cold, damp ground. In a short time we’d set up our camp.
      “Want to go see what’s up?” she asked. I paused and listened; you could still hear distant shouts and drums. I was tired from the long drive and from carrying all our gear, but curious, too.
      “Maybe…let’s bring our cups.” I dug out our metal camping mugs, each of which had a leather strap on the handle so you could attach them to your belt. We also pulled on sweatshirts, since it had grown cool, took a flashlight and wandered back towards the kitchen.
      The half-dozen people had vanished, and one bearded, middle-aged man lounged in a chair near the embers of the fire. He nodded at us as we walked up.
      “Hey! Got anything to drink?” Holly asked.
      “Some tea on the table there.” he answered. On the table stood a large thermos can, the kind that holds five gallons of water and had a spout at the bottom. Holly filled our cups and a pleasant, fruity aroma rose from the steaming liquid.
      “What kind of tea is it?” she asked.
      “Check the sign.” he answered, and I shone my light on a small chalkboard next to the thermos. In flowery letters it told us they were serving mango-passion fruit tea. We sipped the brew; it was pretty tasty. There was no sugar, but I carefully ladled out a teaspoon of honey from a huge glass jar and then replaced the lid.
      “Well, have a good evening.” Holly called to the bearded man as we strolled on up the path.
      “You, too…we love you.” he called back, in a neutral voice.