Nantahala

We found a of map of the Great Smoky Mountains and picked a national forest named
Nantahala because we liked the sound of its name. Winter was receding and we
decided to travel south to meet the spring. Hella and Birdie traveled down from Vermont
and Maya Atlas, who spent the winter in the wickiup with the naturalist, joined our
caravan south. It was a long winter and we were ready for the return of spring. We
made a jar of ganja oil and left Ithaca in the middle of the night with a plate of
homemade brownies. Hella took the wheel as always, Maya Atlas navigated from a
folded paper map, I sat in the back with Birdie who was asleep in his car seat.

“Gooey gooey,” he said in his sleep. We laughed.

“Did someone give Birdie a brownie?” Hella asked only half-joking.

We drove to Nantahala, a Cherokee word that means ‘land of the noonday sun’. We
drove through the night on the interstate until we reached the Blue Ridge Mountains
where we took the two-lane parkway that winds through the hills. The mountain road
climbed higher and higher, taking turns and going through tunnels. It was the night of
the new moon and our headlights were the only light on the road. There was a steep
drop-off on one side as we came around the bend ascending and descending blue
mountains. The Milky Way traveled across the sky. Hella drove until she couldn’t keep
her eyes open and then she pulled over at a scenic overlook. We slept in sleeping bags
on a patch of grass. I fell asleep immediately.

TAP, TAP, TAP

A noise woke us up. There was a beam of flashlight in our eyes. A police officer rapped
the end of the flashlight on the car window.

“Wake up!” The officer said, “you can’t sleep here. It’s against the law in the state of
North Carolina to sleep at a rest stop on the Blue Ridge Parkway.”I shielded my eyes.

“Okay, okay, we’re awake.”

“I need to see some form of identification.”

We were disoriented after so little sleep.

“Get up and get your identification out!” the cop barked at us his flashlight aimed at our faces.

Maya Atlas said, “please stop shining your flashlight in our eyes.”

“It’s illegal to sleep on the Blue Ridge Parkway except in a designated lodge or
campground and all of the campgrounds are currently closed for the season,” he said, “I
need to see identification. Who’s responsible for this child?”

“I am,” Hella said, “I was falling asleep at the wheel so I pulled over for the safety of my child.”

Could the officer not see she was the embodiment of mother earth?

We gave him our driver’s licenses. He shined his flashlight down at the IDs and then up
at our faces – up down, up down, up down — he read off the name that Hella’s parents
gave to her, “who is that?” He shined the flashlight in our eyes.

“Please think about what is happening here,” Hella gave herself up, “we drove all night
and we started to fall asleep so we pulled over. All we did was lay down on the earth to
rest.”

Maya Atlas got involved, “this land was here long before the law that says you can’t
sleep on it — this land will be here long after that law is forgotten. This land was stolen from the Cherokee.”

The cop’s expression – mouth open, eyebrow raised – made it clear that he had not
thought about it and wasn’t about to start now. Instead, he flipped his ticket book open
and wrote four tickets for trespassing and illegal camping. For the record, no warnings
were given.

“Maybe next time you’ll stay home,” he said without a trace of kindness then he
snapped the ticket book closed and kept the flashlight on us as we loaded Birdie back
into his car seat, collected our sleeping bags and got back into the car. We continued on
in a less gooey mood.

We left the Blue Ridge Parkway and found a park to sleep in until the sun got too high in
the sky for sleep. We emerged from our sleeping bag cocoons like butterflies in colorful
clothes to find that the park was full of people — mothers and babies, kids on swings,
teenagers on benches — we packed up quickly before another officer arrived. We
stopped at a stand of old-growth tulip trees that we discovered by chance. The trees
were so tall that the treetops disappeared into the clouds. We arrived at Nantahala (land
of the noonday sun) a few hours before sunset. We hiked into the forest and set up
camp on a gentle slope near a fallen tree. We hung tarps in an A-frame over the site. As
we cooked dinner on the camp stove, a single snowflake floated to earth, which initiated
the storm of the century. Snow fell through the night and in the morning, the forest floor
was buried beneath feet of deep snow. The tarp was sagging from the weight. Hella
said, “we’ve gotta get out of here.”

The forest was still-quiet in snow, all of the wiser animals knew to let the storm pass
before leaving a safe haven. We packed up the camp and started down the trail with
each footstep disappearing into the snowdrift. Lao Tzu said, “the journey of a thousand
miles begins with one step.” In this case, each step felt like a thousand miles. Hella
carried Birdie on her shoulders. What had been a trail through the forest the day before
was lost to the slow-moving river of snow. We were more lost than found. Birdie pointed
the way from above, “here’s the path mama.”

Our bodies were numb when we reached the station wagon. We cranked the heat,
waited until we could feel our fingers and drove to the nearest town, which happened to
be Asheville. We drove downtown in search of a place to warm up and found a festival
in full swing despite the sub-zero temperature. We stopped in front of a café that served
fried green tomatoes and grits. There was a small crowd gathered around street
performers on the sidewalk. It was a band with no instruments – musicians beatboxed
into paper cups. I recognized members of the house band from the fifth dimension.There was a hat on the sidewalk with a sign:

SPARE CHANGE*
* NOTE: “Synchronicity is an ever-present reality.”

We returned to Ithaca before the arrival of spring, but by May 25 the temperature was
on the rise. I stood in the storefront window of the ABC café and watched students join
the current of caps and gowns flowing up the hill to the commencement ceremony. I
saw the lead singer of an anarchist punk band walk by in a mortarboard cap.

“Look who got a new hat!” I to a Haitian woman named Lovely who also worked at the
café.

She sat at the back table peeling garlic, our default job at all times.

“You have to see this to believe it.” Lovely joined me at the front window.

“What happened to the overthrow of western civilization?” She said in the most joyful
accent. “Looks like he’s taking the day off!” She cackled and went back to peeling garlic.
The anarchist disappeared into the stream of graduates, who it should be noted were
moving in the opposite direction of the water. I walked over to an apple crate, picked a
red, yellow and green apron, and joined Lovely at the round table to peel garlic. I had
been waiting for this day — not for the piece of paper with my name and the date — but
for the freedom it symbolized. Now I could travel with no end date in sight. The only
question was, where to go?

As soon as I asked the question, the answer appeared. Lovely introduced me to the
café handyman Tomás, who was driving his VW bus across the country to harvest wild
mushrooms in Oregon for the Ithaca farmers’ market. The mushroom hunter was also
looking for riders to help with gas money. A hitchhiking dream come true.
On the day of the summer solstice, Tomás sputtered up to the ABC in a vintage white
microbus with a two-car caravan of mushroom pickers. “Who needs a ride west?” he
asked in an accent from the Alps.

I got on the bus with Hella, Birdie and Maya Atlas.

I stashed my backpack in a cabinet under the bench seat. The mushroom pickers
smoked a joint as the sun sank into the familiar notch on the western-most tip of the
ridge. Tomás said, “let’s follow the sun!”

We drove through the night and saw the sun rise over skyscraper canyons in Chicago
as we passed through on city streets. We stopped to watch kids playing double-dutch
and then we followed the train tracks out of town. We drove through block after block of
Midwestern slums with dilapidated row houses and overgrown abandoned lots. We
passed the last stop on the blue line and left Chicago in the past-perfect. We crossed
the Great Plains through Iowa and Nebraska and drove north to South Dakota. We
couldn’t go very fast in the bus so we took the scenic route, small highways, country
roads — the rule was if we saw a body of water, we stopped to swim. We swam in some
questionable places. At night we slept on the earth wherever we happened to be.
Tomás took the pop-top camper. Every morning, he swept the bus with a handheld corn
straw broom.

We stopped in the Badlands to witness the ancient rock formations — pinnacles and
spires created by layers of sediment, sand and silt – telling details of past environments
– an aquatic tropical woodland that existed too long ago to measure. We haven’t yet
remembered words for that duration of time. We climbed over the rail of the overlook
and walked into the geologic record. We each experienced our own vision of the
beginning of earth. I saw the ancient sea with my third eye. We got back on the bus. We
drove through Yellowstone on back roads and found water to jump in — a hot spring
swimming hole that was billowing steam. We hid the bus behind some boulders away
from the hot spring and soaked in the sulfuric water. We slept in a field in Idaho and
woke up surrounded by a herd of free-grazing Brahman cows. We crossed the border
into Oregon and stopped in Ashland for supplies. The dream ended in the co-op parking
lot. Tomás and the mushroom pickers were heading into the forest in search of black
morel, blue chanterelle and chicken of the woods. Hella and Birdie were going to the
beach. Maya Atlas and I were navigating to the fifth dimension.

“Good luck with the harvest!”

“May the mushrooms be magic!”

Maya Atlas opened a map of Oregon. Our destination was the Ochoco National Forest
to the northeast.

We arrived on the cusp on July — blue skies, green meadows, wildflowers and
mountains covered in ponderosa pines, sagebrush and juniper. There was already a
kitchen in the pines and miles of trails. The people at main gate greeted us, “welcome
home!”

“This reminds me of Mexico City,” said a punk girl with a shaved head and fairy wings.
The sun set over the mountains. I could see smoke rising from kitchen fires into the
ocean of gold that was the sky. The girl with the fairy wings pretended she was holding
a camera. She took a photograph with her mind.
The main trail was crowded with people from many different geographical locations and
time periods – mothers with babies, wise elders, smoking yogis, Hare Krishnas —
everyone was in motion, walking, trading, drinking tea, carrying food. A group of
peacekeepers resolved problems when they arose. The call for help “shanti sena” was
named for the peace army of Ghandi’s nonviolent followers.
On the fourth of July, the rainbow family observed a day of interdependence by
remaining in silent prayer for peace until noon. We broke the silence in the main
meadow standing in co-centric circles holding hands and chanting the tone poem OM.*

* NOTE: OM (also known as AUM) a sound and symbol in the language of Sanskrit
appears at the beginning of sacred texts and is intoned at the start of spiritual practice.

It is the eternal sound of the infinite universe, the sound OM encompasses everything
that exists, has ever existed and will ever exist. OM is the sound of the creating,
sustaining and dissolving energy of the world. It is a single-syllable mantra also known
as a bija (seed) that is chanted before and after the practice of yoga. Every seed
contains the possibility of creation. OM arises from pure consciousness, it is the sound
of the existence of the universe, it is the initial vibration of the world, OM encompasses
all mantras, vibrations and sounds. We chant OM to experience the infinite within us. As
Ram Dass said, “you are the universe.”

The culmination of the day of interdependence was celebrated with a drum circle andbonfire in the Main Meadow. The next morning, we began to deconstruct the temporary
city in the woods. As the rainbows say, “take only photographs (ask first), leave only
footprints (on established paths).” Kitchens were broken down, campsites packed up,
the wood frame of the treehouse theater was scattered in the woods.

I packed all of my possessions into a small backpack and followed the trail to the
parking lot to find a ride in the sea of painted school buses, trucks, vans and cars with
license plates from every state. I walked past the other hitchhikers and spotted Noah
who played the stand-up bass in the house band. He drove a full-size yellow school bus
that was converted into a mobile home with a set of turntables. All of the windows in the
bus were down and music was coming from inside. Noah was loading instruments into
the back of the bus – a stand-up bass, a drum kit, crates of vinyl records. I walked over
and offered to help, “where are you heading?”

“We got a spot onstage at the Oregon Country Fair.”

My vision crystalized — a school bus ride to the fair.

“Are you looking for a rider? I can help fill the tank.”

“There’s always room for one more rider with gas money.”

I got on the bus. I found a seat next to a crate of records. The bus was filled with music
equipment – a set of turntables, stand-up bass, crates of records, drum kit, hand drums,
speakers. There was endless packing and waiting for people and changes of plans and
then Noah fired up the school bus engine and we took off in the direction of Eugene.
The house band played music on the bus. A caravan of cars followed with the theater
crew. A van with the kitchen. We descended on Eugene like a swarm of bees. We drove
to the food co-op. No one had eaten since the last meal at main circle. I went inside to
buy groceries to share, some riders went dumpster diving behind the store. A woman on
the bus named Go reappeared with a cardboard box of fresh green figs each packed in
its individual paper wrapper. She was known for finding treasures in the trash.

“Looks like figs are in season!” She placed the box on the hood, “free for all from the
earth.” Go also found a crate of overripe peaches that a kind soul had set down next to
the dumpster instead of inside. “Today’s our lucky day!” She carried the fruit into the
store to wash it off in the bathroom sink.

We arrived at the fairgrounds in time to catch the performance before the house band
was slated to play. It was a violinist who played foot stomping flamenco. A haunting
ballad cast a spell on the crowd. The house band took the stage at sundown with a set
of turntables. They chanted OM into the microphone until the last note trailed off into
amplified feedback. A few people walked away. They opened with a song about
dumpster diving and then rapped about sleeping on rooftops and hopping trains. A
couple started dancing, but then the band played a hardcore song with the chorus “cops
sell drugs!” The peace and love crowd stopped dancing, some of them started to boo.
Someone in the audience yelled, “get off the stage!”

There was no encore. After the show, I wandered through the fairgrounds, which were
designed to resemble a miniature medieval city with a bustling inner courtyard enclosed
by a tall picket fence. It evoked a collective memory of the Globe in Shakespeare times.
I wandered into a marketplace — wooden toys, homemade soap, crystals – and stalls of
vegetarian food. Some members of the house band arrived and put out the magic hat in
the hope of making a few extra dollars for gas. Back in their element on a sidewalk of
sorts performing for spare change. They drew a small yet appreciative crowd. A stilt
walker dressed like a turn-of-century circus performer and a woman who was dusted in
glitter. Within minutes a security guard in a fluorescent yellow vest holding a walkie-
talkie appeared, “no busking here folks — only authorized vendors – pack it up!”

“We just played the main stage,” one of the musicians protested, “did you catch our
set?”

“All I see is you not packing it up,” the guard waved his walkie-talkie like a bad omen, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Wait, what? Check it out,” Noah was the voice of reason.

The security guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, “security to main gate.”

There was static and then a voice responded, “go ahead security.”

“We have unauthorized performers in the courtyard who are refusing to vacate.”

“We’re not refusing to vacate!”

“We just played onstage!”

The security guard said, “I’m calling for backup.”

We splintered in different directions — no one wanted to get kicked out of the fair. Noah
took a nap in the bus, the MC made popcorn in a large stainless-steel wok. I walked
down to the bank of the Lost River where I found a seat under a string of prayer flags
printed with woodblock deities — Windhorse, Green Tara, Guru Rinpoche, White Tara
and Buddha.

Arrow found me down by the river. We swam with the giant rock faces of gods and
goddesses – immortal beings rendered in stone. When we emerged from the river there
was a bonfire in the field next to the fairgrounds – a drum circle played one long song
that never ends. I listened to the music and lost track of time. I fell asleep under a tree and had a dream that we were hitchhiking.*

*NOTE: See ‘Northern California’

When I woke up, Arrow was asleep next to me. I looked at tattoos on exposed skin —
signs, symbols, arrows, script. A compass said:

YOU ARE HERE

When the sun rose, we went to look for the school bus. The bonfire smoldered in the
field, people packed cars and collected trash, there were still dozens of tents in the field.

The security guard with the fluorescent yellow vest drove by in a golf cart deep in
conversation on his walkie-talkie.

I overheard, “security to main gate.”

“This is main gate — go ahead security.”

“There is unauthorized camping in the field.”

“Tell them the fair is over — it’s time to go home.”

“I would tell them sir but the tents are all empty.”

“Well, where are they if they’re not in the tents?”

“They are down by the river swimming and dancing.

by Lea Lion