After a long day of doing nothing (those are the longest days of course), I settled into bed rather late; about 7:30pm. I had one elbow down, and was about to ease the other half of my body onto the bed, when a car pulled up and parked at the bus stop/u-turn point across the road. The car was there when I fell asleep and it was there in the morning when I went to town. A red Jeep Cherokee. Newer than mine, and from New York. Lic# EJL1303. Duly noted.
Returning from town they were still there, but this time there were people moving around the Jeep. I parked and entered the house. Heated coffee, and went upstairs to view the squatters from behind the mirrors. I was on my first cup of coffee when they approached the shack; a tall woman, not heavy, but not thin either with long, dark, red hair and a child hanging from a wide band of cloth slung around her neck and over her shoulder: a kind of circular hammock the child hung in. The child, a cute little red headed baby girl that was eight months old I would later find out, was adept at holding on to that cloth as a young chimp. A man, at least ten feet behind the woman, with a full beard and wearing a cap with ear muffs he had pulled over his ears, was carrying a small bag with paper handles that, when he got closer, I could see contained four one pound packages of butter and some mushrooms in a cardbord package under cellophane.
I said,"Good morning. What can I do for you folks today?"
The woman smiled and said,"We were looking for a barter."
I smiled and replied that there wasn't a thing in the world that I needed except 380 rounds for my Sig Sauer and shotgun shells (I had planned on driving to Grants Pass and buying both, along with a case of clay pigeons, before they had appeared on my doorstep). Then I asked what they had to trade, and what they wanted.
The woman smiled and said, "How about some coffee? We have butter and mushrooms."
I considered her request. Hot coffee, after sleeping in a car, probably sounded wonderful to her.
It was a moment of decision. I had no interest in bartering, but I thought I would hear their story and invited them in for coffee. The flip side of the decision was to send them down the road. The baby was the deciding factor. I brought them into the warmth and shelter of the stove room in the shack. I sat them down, served them coffee, asked their names, and then asked how they came to sleep in the Jeep across the road (I couldn't help the touch of Seuss).
Their story was a 'friend' had told them that Happy Camp was an old hippie settlement where, if they just went and hung out, they would be invited into a commune or a community, or find their dreams of nirvana or something... and so they were on their way to Happy Camp.
Happy Camp Road starts one mile down the road from my house at what is locally called 'four corners'; a crossing of Takilma Road where Happy Camp Road becomes Waldo Road. I live one mile up from four corners. Happy Camp is thirty seven miles farther south across the border, in California. I know the sign at four corners reads 'Road Open', but as this young couple found out, the road is only plowed to the snow park which is just eleven miles past my house. The road is impassable during the winter months. That was how they came to be sleeping across the street.
I asked where they got the butter. Neither answered
I asked how they came to be in Oregon via New York. Several times the young man got lost in his dialogue descibing the trials and tribulations of being young and aimless and wanting more, without opportunity. At times he made no sense in his words. The two of them had been together since New Year's Eve. She had escaped a musician that hit her, and he a woman now in a cult, who wouldn't have sex for purposes other than propagation of the species. Somewhere there had been a settlement, and he had bought a Jeep, and they had been on their way to her mother's in eastern Washington before Happy Camp had come up...
I tried to steer them right; I explained that Happy Camp was a defunct logging town, heavily influenced by the Indian Reservation where (my impression was) people were neither friendly nor open, and usually didn't like strangers. I went further though and described Takilma. The small community on the south side of Hope Mountain, on the opposite side of the ridge from me. Takilma, an old hippie settlement with an alternative lifestyle community where (if there was a place in this area) these psuedo-hippies would be welcome. It's only a mile and a half from me and I explained twice how to get there. I told them of the community school where they might get help.
They made no move to leave. They were comfortable. I looked at both of them. I knew they were scared to death. Finding our way in the world can be terrifying. My heart went out to them. Maybe they needed to learn about 'work'. I knew they would have been happy to move right in. I stood and escorted them out. As the mother held the doorjam, and lowered her foot down the long step from my doorway to the ground, I noticed the baby under her arm; the baby's legs around the mothers back, still holding to that circular cloth for dear life. The baby understood. I had the feeling she was already learning to take care of herself.
I wanted to rescue them. I hope they rescue themselves. I remember it was not that long ago I had to rescue myself.
It only takes yourself, most of the time.
Showing posts with label Takilma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Takilma. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Takilma Tree House Party
I got up on the 5 July and my face hurt from smiling so much the night before. Next year you should come to the Treehouse Independence day Party here in Takilma, State of Jefferson, on the south base of Hope Mountain, opposite the north base of my home.
It all started innocent enough on the 3 July. Jeff asked me, "What ya doin' on the Fourth?”
I started to give him a brief itinerary for my weekend when he interrupted me and said, "You should go out to the treehouses in Takilma." Jeff knows I live opposite the infamous hippie settlement of the seventies.
"The treehouses?"
"Oh yeah, Man, you'll dig it, the whole community goes out there. There's live music, fireworks, food… it's a party, man. You should go." Jeff isn't exactly a party animal; a health nut with two teenage sons and a pre-teenage daughter, owner of the prominent Chevron station for the last twenty five years, he's a pillar of the community, so I naturally figured the ‘treehouse party’ would be a respectable family affair, for the most part.
I ran into another buddy of mine, Dave, that afternoon too. Dave carves bears and wizards and such, from cedar logs with a chain saw. He lives in a camp trailer on part of his sister's lot at the four corners (where my road and Takilma Road intersect). Toothless, wild and rambling, Dave’s a party animal. As I passed his place on the way home he hailed me over and asked me, "Hey, whatta you doin' on the Fourth?” Before I could answer he continued, "You should go to the treehouses. Man, you'll have a good time!
“Everybody will be there, man, you gotta go."
My phone rang on the morning of the Fourth. It was Devon, another buddy of mine. He owns a caravan park in Cave Junction. Devon is a businessman and a party animal. He loves women, being too loud, having too much fun, and drinking too much. At six foot seven and two hundred and seventy pounds, he’s a giant of a man. His best friend Jessie is two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier.
So, Devon calls me on the morning of the Fourth and said, "We're going to the Treehouses for a party tonight, we'll be by to get you at six".
I said, " Have you been there before?"
Devon replied, " No, but everybody says it's a party, so you should go too."
Devon's only been in town about six months longer than I have and at thirty years old and single he's always on the hunt for love and a thrill. Twenty years older than he and Jessie, I didn't have their enthusiasm for a party, but after the third 'you should go’ I was beginning to feel like the community was waiting to meet me and I should go. Especially intriguing was the vast difference in the people who recommended my going.
Takilma has a reputation for being an ex-hippie haven/refuge, pot farming community on the Oregon/California border where the only way into the mountains and the California part of the valley, is through Oregon. Local law enforcement avoids the place. One road in, one road out. No radio, no cell service, no strangers. If there is a ‘State of Jefferson’, Takilma and the southern side of the mountain is the rebel base. The helicopter spends a lot more time over there...
The boys arrived about an hour late. Prelude to the party, and we were on the way. We were Happy.
The treehouses are just a few miles in on Takilma road. You can google 'Out 'n About', or 'Takilma Treehouses', and take a virtual tour.
Before the sun went down ‘the party” was a picnic, barbecue, and family affair. A cross between Golden Gate Park circa 1969, and The Renaissance fair at Black Oak Forest in Novato. Games, food, vendors, treehouses, and ropewalks. Ale, beer. wine, women and song. Mushroom tea... pungent smells in the air. Open laughter and pipe sharing. There was a country band and a few dancers. At least a couple of thousand people. It was Woodstock 2008 on a smaller scale. Everybody was friendly and COOL. The Party was an excellent representation of the community. I felt good to be part of the microcosm.
While were standing around drinking, eating and admiring other people's wives and girlfriends, a young lady suddenly dropped to the ground not ten feet away and started flopping like a fish on dry ground. Everybody was shocked. Her friends were frozen. She was about twenty-five and everyone just stood and watched as she wriggled in the brown dirt.
Moments into the drama, as the girl's color started to change I moved over to her. Holding her head still, I could she was biting her tongue. It was already bleeding. I yelled for a stick to put between her teeth. I forced enough of my thumbs between her teeth to release her tongue, and at that moment a young man with dreadlocks shoved an index finger size stick between her teeth.
I calmly told her to relax, she'd be okay. She was incoherent. I still kept repeating, "You'll be ok, just relax, you'll be ok."
Suddenly, her eyes met mine and she was back. I could see she was confused and scared. I told her, "You're gonna be fine." A security person arrived. They had called an ambulance for the girl and asked everyone to back up and for the young lady to remain still. I walked back over to the boys.
Scott handed me a beer. "You saved her life, man."
"Yeaaahhhhhhhh, kinda changed the mood for a minute though, didn't it?'"
I looked in the ice chest for the rest of the mushroom tea. Motherf*****s drank it while I was being a hero! Oh well... Devon had bought two red cups of 'tea’ and him, Jessie and Scott had split one. Then Devon handed me the second for myself. I decided I'd watch the boys for a while and stick to ale until I could see how they fared. I was about half way through the juice when the girl had started to flop. I never did find out what went wrong.
As the sun set the fireworks started. There was a water truck and the display was done over a large meadow. No fire danger here I guess. The party was lit up for about an hour. I was impressed. While the fireworks display went on, the bands changed. As the display ended the bass player started to rumble. A young man with dreadlocks started a rhythmic chant; suddenly the singer yelled, “Are you listening Takilma?" The saxophonist let loose with a long drawn out note, and the party started moving toward the stage. There were a lot of those red cups around. The reggae was top notch.
During the second song the saxophonist started throwing finger size joints out into the crowd. It got smoky. The crowd found some rhythm and got their hands above their heads. The band was hot. The singer yelled something about the State of Jefferson tonight. The crowd got cooler, younger, and happier. The whole place was moving with the groove. I couldn't stop smiling. It was a Freedom thing. The band played for three hours without a break. They did it again the next night, too. It was all good. Next year...............
Are you one of us, or one of them?
It all started innocent enough on the 3 July. Jeff asked me, "What ya doin' on the Fourth?”
I started to give him a brief itinerary for my weekend when he interrupted me and said, "You should go out to the treehouses in Takilma." Jeff knows I live opposite the infamous hippie settlement of the seventies.
"The treehouses?"
"Oh yeah, Man, you'll dig it, the whole community goes out there. There's live music, fireworks, food… it's a party, man. You should go." Jeff isn't exactly a party animal; a health nut with two teenage sons and a pre-teenage daughter, owner of the prominent Chevron station for the last twenty five years, he's a pillar of the community, so I naturally figured the ‘treehouse party’ would be a respectable family affair, for the most part.
I ran into another buddy of mine, Dave, that afternoon too. Dave carves bears and wizards and such, from cedar logs with a chain saw. He lives in a camp trailer on part of his sister's lot at the four corners (where my road and Takilma Road intersect). Toothless, wild and rambling, Dave’s a party animal. As I passed his place on the way home he hailed me over and asked me, "Hey, whatta you doin' on the Fourth?” Before I could answer he continued, "You should go to the treehouses. Man, you'll have a good time!
“Everybody will be there, man, you gotta go."
My phone rang on the morning of the Fourth. It was Devon, another buddy of mine. He owns a caravan park in Cave Junction. Devon is a businessman and a party animal. He loves women, being too loud, having too much fun, and drinking too much. At six foot seven and two hundred and seventy pounds, he’s a giant of a man. His best friend Jessie is two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier.
So, Devon calls me on the morning of the Fourth and said, "We're going to the Treehouses for a party tonight, we'll be by to get you at six".
I said, " Have you been there before?"
Devon replied, " No, but everybody says it's a party, so you should go too."
Devon's only been in town about six months longer than I have and at thirty years old and single he's always on the hunt for love and a thrill. Twenty years older than he and Jessie, I didn't have their enthusiasm for a party, but after the third 'you should go’ I was beginning to feel like the community was waiting to meet me and I should go. Especially intriguing was the vast difference in the people who recommended my going.
Takilma has a reputation for being an ex-hippie haven/refuge, pot farming community on the Oregon/California border where the only way into the mountains and the California part of the valley, is through Oregon. Local law enforcement avoids the place. One road in, one road out. No radio, no cell service, no strangers. If there is a ‘State of Jefferson’, Takilma and the southern side of the mountain is the rebel base. The helicopter spends a lot more time over there...
The boys arrived about an hour late. Prelude to the party, and we were on the way. We were Happy.
The treehouses are just a few miles in on Takilma road. You can google 'Out 'n About', or 'Takilma Treehouses', and take a virtual tour.
Before the sun went down ‘the party” was a picnic, barbecue, and family affair. A cross between Golden Gate Park circa 1969, and The Renaissance fair at Black Oak Forest in Novato. Games, food, vendors, treehouses, and ropewalks. Ale, beer. wine, women and song. Mushroom tea... pungent smells in the air. Open laughter and pipe sharing. There was a country band and a few dancers. At least a couple of thousand people. It was Woodstock 2008 on a smaller scale. Everybody was friendly and COOL. The Party was an excellent representation of the community. I felt good to be part of the microcosm.
While were standing around drinking, eating and admiring other people's wives and girlfriends, a young lady suddenly dropped to the ground not ten feet away and started flopping like a fish on dry ground. Everybody was shocked. Her friends were frozen. She was about twenty-five and everyone just stood and watched as she wriggled in the brown dirt.
Moments into the drama, as the girl's color started to change I moved over to her. Holding her head still, I could she was biting her tongue. It was already bleeding. I yelled for a stick to put between her teeth. I forced enough of my thumbs between her teeth to release her tongue, and at that moment a young man with dreadlocks shoved an index finger size stick between her teeth.
I calmly told her to relax, she'd be okay. She was incoherent. I still kept repeating, "You'll be ok, just relax, you'll be ok."
Suddenly, her eyes met mine and she was back. I could see she was confused and scared. I told her, "You're gonna be fine." A security person arrived. They had called an ambulance for the girl and asked everyone to back up and for the young lady to remain still. I walked back over to the boys.
Scott handed me a beer. "You saved her life, man."
"Yeaaahhhhhhhh, kinda changed the mood for a minute though, didn't it?'"
I looked in the ice chest for the rest of the mushroom tea. Motherf*****s drank it while I was being a hero! Oh well... Devon had bought two red cups of 'tea’ and him, Jessie and Scott had split one. Then Devon handed me the second for myself. I decided I'd watch the boys for a while and stick to ale until I could see how they fared. I was about half way through the juice when the girl had started to flop. I never did find out what went wrong.
As the sun set the fireworks started. There was a water truck and the display was done over a large meadow. No fire danger here I guess. The party was lit up for about an hour. I was impressed. While the fireworks display went on, the bands changed. As the display ended the bass player started to rumble. A young man with dreadlocks started a rhythmic chant; suddenly the singer yelled, “Are you listening Takilma?" The saxophonist let loose with a long drawn out note, and the party started moving toward the stage. There were a lot of those red cups around. The reggae was top notch.
During the second song the saxophonist started throwing finger size joints out into the crowd. It got smoky. The crowd found some rhythm and got their hands above their heads. The band was hot. The singer yelled something about the State of Jefferson tonight. The crowd got cooler, younger, and happier. The whole place was moving with the groove. I couldn't stop smiling. It was a Freedom thing. The band played for three hours without a break. They did it again the next night, too. It was all good. Next year...............
Are you one of us, or one of them?
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