Tales from the summer :III: Much Ado About Wooks

July 2023

I'm visiting my home state of Vermont for a memorial when I receive a call from Keisha. She's headed to New Hampshire by way of Chicago. The occasion? The US National Rainbow Gathering. She asks if I want to hop in her van with “two wooks”. I hadn't seen Keisha since our hobo/hobohemian/hiker-trash crew got evicted from a New Orleans squat in the springtime.

A dirty, nondescript, white utility van with no license plates pulls up to my mom's house in rural Southern VT. The sliding side door peels open and two dirty travelers roll out. I greet them with beers in hand.

We have one wook in a cowboy hat wearing greasy bibs, a metrosexual dressed like one of the Street Fighters, and Keisha, a proper trainhopper and rubbertramp dressed in plain attire. They all have a dazed look about them. They want showers.

My mom wrings her hands nervously. She says her septic can't handle back-to-back showers. She's not lying, but the undertones are, “I don't want two wooks and a trainhopper bathing in my clean home”. Understandable. She's also concerned that there aren't seats in the back of the van for me to buckle into, as a passenger. Of all things. She hugs me as if it's the last time she'll see me; no easy way to be the mother of a tramp.

We stop at a nearby rock quarry to bathe. Keisha vents a little about her companions. One is gas-jugging (highway panhandling) and the other is busking, playing solo trombone. This is how they're splitting the gas from the midwest to New England. She met them through a Rainbow Family rideshare page. The trip started out quickly but stalled once they got to New York, it seemed. Every stop, taking several hours to get going again.

I offered my services to “crack the whip” and play captain while she kick her feet up. I also offer to split half of the remaining gas costs. She assents my offer.

We're only 4 hours away. Piece of cake. I chomp down a few slices of San Pedro cactus and rally the troupe.

“Cowboy Bebop”, young fella in the bibs who plays trombone alright, complains that we can't proceed further until he buys a new pair of shoes.

“You're goin' to Rainbow. You don't need shoes.” I remind him.

“Last time I tried that, I got trench-foot so bad, I couldn't walk for a week. I need to go busk some money up.” He laments.

“Bro, we're in rural New England. Solo trombone ain't really a hot act in these parts. Look, I'll see if there are any thrift stores on the way. Now, let's get a move on!” We load up and fire away, me driving.

I call a few thrift stores. All closed. Late in the day. I do find one that's open,

“Hey, do you sell shoes?” I ask.

“Shoes? Yeah... uh... actually fresh out.”

“So, you're outta shoes?” I confirm

“Yeah, outta shoes.”

I hang up and let Cowboy know. He seems defeated. I offer to shoplift him a pair from Wal-Mart, but it was a hollow offer. Keisha let me know that he had shoes in the van, but they were drenched.

“Dry 'em out on a campfire like marshmallows on a stick!” I offer. “Haven't you seen that one Jackie Chan movie where he does that with his pants? The Drunken Monk?”

Cowboy shrugs. He's riding shotgun, lazily rolling cigarettes with his bare feet on the dash while Keisha rides in the back. At least Cowboy has some good stories. Ones I probably shouldn't repeat. Okay, just one.

While riding a freight train with concealed firearms, he was pulled off somewhere in the deep south. Because he was white, he was able to sit the 5 days or so for trespassing and appeal to get his weapons mailed to his homestate in the midwest. Hardly believable. Entertaining nonetheless.

He talks a lot about his abusive wife a lot. For a 24 year old, dude seems to have some miles on him.

The other rider, Azure, sits tight and peacefully, giggling occasionally. We all make it to New Hampshire without holdup.

Passing a sign advertising live music and free ice cream, we stop to investigate. Says 7pm, Monday. I look at my phone. It just happens to be 7pm and Monday. We stop to investigate. I approach the bandstand to ask a lone woman about the availability of music and frozen desserts.

“Both canceled. Rain.” She shrugs.

“What's in the freezer?” I toss a thumb over my shoulder, gesturing toward a lone chest freezer tethered by an extension cord.

“Empty, I guess.”

I smile and wave, and as she turns away, I open the freezer to find it well-stocked with 3-gallon Friendly's ice cream buckets. I pull out a Rocky Road, about ¼ full, and carry it underarm back to the van. We delight in an ice cream feast, basking in the copper glow of a humid New England eve. Morale is high.

Nearing our destination, we learn of heavy police presence near the entrance to the gathering, located in a section of national forest near Mt. Washington. A few Rainbows are pulled over and busted for weed. I tell the crew to keep their shit tucked so we can make it through the potential gauntlet that awaits Rainbow arrivals.

Apparently, the local town and the Rainbow Family haven't maintained the best report, and the local news is running smear campaigns around the upcoming event after word spread about fallout from 2016's national gathering in the Green Mountain National forest in Vermont.

Everyone loves to shit on the Rainbows, and they're not entirely wrong for doing so. All-in-all, there are worse cults. The townsfolks would be better uprooting Catholic pedophiles rather than a few derelict nomads, byproducts and reminders of the industrial epoch.

At Rainbow, the bar is low but everyone is high. It's free and anarchic, in ways. It's mutual aid and socialistic, in ways. It opposes the very fabric of society. Counter-culture. It's the grungy, lazy counterpart to the age of debt slavery and the 40 hour work week.

The main complaint of local townsfolk: these events trample forests, often leaving inevitable waste behind, despite the best efforts of attendees. And, what of the locals with their dirt bikes, snowmobiles, and ATVs, littering forest trails with spent Skoal tins, cigarette butts, and Bud Light cans? Comparisons are odious and so are dirty hippies washing their faces in produce aisle misters. I say we're all fucking guilty.

The Rainbows chop down trees to build, creating bridges, paths, and camps. Setup lasts for at least a month, which is called “Seed Camp”. This pisses off the forest service, whom have little room to speak due to their own terrible track record of preserving the wilds.

I refer to a case of the National Park Service in 1957, who decided to “reclaim” Abrams Creek for rainbow trout. Biologists dumped several drums of poison called rotenone into 15 miles of creek. 31 species of fish were wiped out. During this experiment, the biologists discovered the corpse of a new fish species! The “Smoky Madtom”, which was simultaneously discovered and wiped out during the same experiment.

Considering all of this is experimental, the town folk will always complain when a large group of humans gather for fringe-culture or counter-culture experiments. So it goes. The rangers posted signs citing violations that we could all theoretically be fined for. The moving of forest debris and groups larger than 75 being among the most punishable of offenses.

We make it into the forest under canopy of darkness with no incident. The police don't bother our white van with its rapist aesthetic. Groovy.

We're greeted by the usual “Welcome Home” cheers of fellow attendees while we figure out where to bed down in this rain. A Rainbow Gathering is typically comprised of many camps with different themes and offerings. Think: free Burning Man for tramps. There is a main circle where events take place, along with other camps who host stages and events and meals of all types.

I find a quiet spot in the brush and unpack a borrowed tent that my mom's boyfriend acquired at an estate sale. I realize it only contains poles and a rain fly. No tent. It's raining. This is the second time I've taken an un-inspected tent on an adventure to find myself shit outta luck. Shame on me.

Luckily, I've brought a large rainfly and a sleeping pad. I borrow a ground tarp from Keisha and bed down in the trees, open camping style. Mosquitoes are gonna fuck me up come sunrise. That's what scarves are for.

Next morning, Keisha and I get the wook belongings out of her van and lock it up. A clean break. We walk up a long muddy trail to the main circle to partake in the big event: a 4th of July morning spent in silent meditation and prayer for peace on Earth. Reasonable.

Keisha is resistant to holding hands but I let her know it's okay. It's just a cult. It's not a big deal. Let's sing and pray. Maybe do some Om'ing and watch the show. We're a part of it, after all. Might as well participate.

I sit down with my typwriter in the middle of the celebratory drum circle, clacking rhythm and waxing sardonic gonzo prose.

Afterwards, we opt for coffee and heckling passerby at a small camp, where it's residents are debating anarchist theory. One debater is promoting the International Worker's Union. Wobblies! I ask who their current leader is and they can't say. The conversation shuts down entirely.

Everyone resumes smoking dabs, coughing, and chugging black coffee. One lad vents about their inherent distrust of organizations run by humans or anything created by humans, advocating for a sort of mycelial decentralization,

“We oughta fixour problems with animistic problem-solving rather than human intelligence! Case-in-point: the Slime Mold experiment in Japan. The experiment was designed and conducted by humans to address human structures but solved with mycelial intelligence. We oughta get out of our own way.”

“Now, that's anarchism done right.” Someone suggests.

Everyone's getting properly stoned. Enjoying the atmosphere. The company; everyone waiting. This palpable “waiting” energy. Anticipatory vibes; anxious to a degree. Waiting for what?

Waiting to be liberated? Waiting for the apocalypse? Waiting for Jesus to come back? Waiting to ascend? Waiting for singularity? Waiting for the next meal or handout? Waiting to get laid? Waiting for the next beer or bud or psychedelic? Waiting to be severed from this mortal coil?

I'm walking, now; caffeinated.

“Waiting for pizza...?” Some guy asks, promoting Pizza Camp.

“Pizza Camp?” I ask.

“It's an all you can eat, scarf til you barf, pizza til you puke party.” He cheers.

“I have to ask, are we puking because of too much pizza or because of unsanitary cooking practices?”

He remains silent for awhile before submitting, somewhat stoically,

“You'll have to come find out. They'll feed you so much pizza that they'll have to stuff it down your throat with a stick.” And he disappears into the forest brush.

I wonder if that was a sexual innuendo or a violent euphemism.

I walk onward and hear folks discussing resource generation and self-reliance,

“Seems like most of this wouldn't exist without EBT and food banks. I wouldn't call this generating our own resources or living off the land, but some people would.”

“We all gotta start somewhere.”

“Hey, you got any bud, man?”

I see signs for plant walks and primitive/earth skills communal happenings. Opportunities for education. Opportunities for empowerment. Opportunities for steps in the direction of liberation, perhaps. Good for them. Connect with your local Earth Skills and Primitive Skills communities!

The hooplah and kumbaya are great & all but Keisha and I wish to dull our senses with some alcohol, which is generally not welcome in the main camp areas. Back to the parking lot for our Dionysian lot. A few heretical steps take us down to “A Camp” where I procure a few shots of gin in exchange for some San Pedro cactus. We shoot the shit awhile and head back toward the van to pull up stakes.

In my short visit here, I observed a home for many. So much food, emotional support, freedom of love and expression through spontaneous, song, dance, and art. Amazing bluegrass and folk music stages, bodies writhing in elegant, muddy dance. Sweaty abyss of human cesspit blooms forth in flowers, sticky and full of pheromone nectar, the misguided anthro finds rhythm and lore, myth and belonging, at least for awhile.

Keisha and I drive away to find a quiet riverside camp spot, break a few sticks for, and make a bum camp home of our own beneath an open sky, stars glittering, bonfire raging, river roaring, and not another human around for at least a few miles.

Feeling my own state of belonging: running, ducking, dodging, weaving, whispering and haunting places like a peasant ghost of all the pens and ink ribbons I spent on journals and sidewalks of Babylon, never chanting it down but admiring its myriad shapes as it crumbles on its own, and taking repose as if I already am a daisy bursting through concrete, spreading seeds and release,

“It's not man that I love less but nature more.”

The next morning we roll out toward the coast of Maine to cook some lobstah on the beach.

— Jon D Rapp