The grungy man, who looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks, drifted sleepily over to our car window and peered inside. “Hey, man. You know you’re still seven miles away from the trailhead, yeah?  Huh… is that dried fruit?”  No, it wasn’t, and I wasn’t sure whether to believe the guy about our distance from the trail that led to the Rainbow Gathering.  His mind was definitely under the influence of something, and it wasn’t just hippie tranquility and brotherly love, I would hazard to guess.
Ivy and I were still some unknown distance away from the Rainbow Gathering – an annual event where 30,000 hippies of all ages converge on a site in the National Forest somewhere in the United States and create a temporary community, one where people can live out their ideals of love and harmony away from the corroding effects of capitalism and modern consumer culture. This was the 40th such assemblage, and the announcement that the weeklong event would happen in the state of Washington was made several weeks ago so that people could start hitchhiking and caravanning across the country in the general direction of the gathering.
The final site chosen was southeast of the volcanic Mt. St. Helens and not far at all from the path of my travels. I picked up my excited friend Ivy in Portland, and within a few hours we had reached a confluence of roads in the National Forest where dozens of vehicles were tightly parked. I believed the trailhead must be close by, despite the warning provided by our scruffy friend with the altered consciousness. We parked, shouldered our packs, hoisted our assorted gear and started off down the road.
Before we had gone fifty feet, I could see that the last bit of positive, hippie energy was draining quickly out of Ivy’s body. She was wilting under the weight of her massive pack, which was overloaded with an entire wardrobe of bohemian clothing. She would never survive the journey, and a pair of hitchhikers confirmed that we probably had miles to go. So I re-enlisted my trusty Jeep, and we drove seven hot, dusty, claustrophobic miles on narrow dirt roads, weaving in and out of traffic jams, squeezing through corridors of tightly-parked cars, past weary souls lugging packs, carts and wagons until we were finally in view of the actual trailhead.
By then, the instinct to flee the scene was strong. We’d planned to drop off our gear, and then Ivy would wait at the trailhead while I drove a few miles away and found an available, legal parking space. But as providence would have it, I spotted a potential opening among the vehicles. I hit the reverse gear hard and claimed the space as my own. The Jeep now straddled a gully, and it was out of the way of traffic but on the wrong side of the road, where signs warned that vehicles would be towed. We reasoned that no one in their right mind would bring a tow truck in here, for it would cause far more traffic problems than it would solve, so we decided to accept the risk and continue on to the Gathering on foot.
“Welcome home!” and occasionally, “Lovin’ you!” were expressed with great frequency in our direction as we entered and began touring the makeshift community. We passed several shady encampments of tents, tarps and hammocks that were set up between snowbanks in the forest. Ragged individuals stirred pots of unknown contents on small campfires, and barefoot children wandered past, asking if we wanted free hugs. One little girl with a bicycle pump dispensed puffs of compressed “Deodorant!” to the dirty hippies walking by, whether they desired some or not. 
A colorful and cheerful sort of squalor was evident was we walked further, not knowing which gypsy village would eventually take us in. We crossed a temporary but well-designed bridge and reached the Big Meadow – a huge, beautiful open landscape filled with tall grasses and leafy false helibore, ringed with multicolored banners, tents and teepees. A lazy stream ran along the edge, running deep and pure, its temperament perfectly matching that of the forest’s inhabitants. For a gathering of thirty thousand people, the place did not feel crowded at all. What little trash we saw was quickly picked up, and we were told that a two-week restoration process would occur after the crowds had left.
An acquaintance spotted us near one of the community kitchens and graciously helped us settle in, giving us a campsite near a West African Drumming camp and convincing us to stay a couple nights. I had plenty of time to wander, dance in drum circles, and see what the Gathering meant to people. For some, it seemed it was about the drugs.  Solicitations from people wanting to trade for drugs or receive them as free gifts grew to become my biggest pet peeve.
For most people I spoke to, the event was about community. It was a chance for them to practice living up to their ideals, and to prove that a community can exist based upon love, harmony and consensus. From what I could see, in the short-term they were definitely reaching their goal.
I ultimately concluded that the Gathering was one big intensive workshop on open-heartedness. When enough people around you are giving you unabashed smiles and expressing genuine words of love, it slowly breaks down your cynical resistance to touchy-feely attitudes, and your heart begins to open up as well. For some, this process is a revelation… for others who come to these Gatherings time after time, it is a welcoming home to their true natures… a reason to travel thousands of miles, so that they can be reminded of their true selves.
On the Fourth of July, after a morning spent in communal silence and prayer, the whole assemblage left their camps and quietly gathered in a ring at the edge of the great meadow. Standing in the bright sunlight, hands clasped in one another’s, thousands of people gathered their energies and broke the silence with a single, drawn-out syllable: OM. The chant began timidly at first, and I sensed it would build to a thunderous level, resonating with primal power in the hearts of all who gathered here, just as soon as the last few people managed to link arms and bridge the final gap in the circle at the far side of the meadow.
But then a premature cheer rose up from one of the larger camps, prompting the other sides of the circle to cease their chanting and follow suit with great whoops and festive shouting. Ivy was actually angry at the abrupt resolution to the ceremony. “You should ask for your money back,” I told her, teasingly. After all that buildup, maybe the moment did feel like a bit of a let down. Still, how much organization can you really expect out of thirty thousand hippies?