laramie

The gathering included all sorts of people interested in alternative life-styles, living ecologically, sharing a kind of make-shift village life in which people worked together to prepare food and meet the other human needs of the group. Meals were large affairs of people sitting around in a huge circle. I was fascinated to watch a mother let her baby study the contents of a bowl and pick out the bits of fruit or vegetable the child wanted. (I'd been brought up to eat whatever was served, whether I liked it or not).

I learned about making and using earth ovens; I played my soprano recorder to entertain people busy chopping vegetables. (I worried that I wasn't being enough help and was assured that the choppers liked having the music). I also attended a class led by Swami-Mommy-Guru-Loves-Garbage-Gaga, a woman years ahead of her time in recycling-awareness and techniques. I also met up with a young shakuhachi-player named Mayo, I'd met the year before in Boulder, with whom I began spending a lot of time.

I had traveled cross-country to the gathering with a friend and fellow artist, Cecilia Henle, in a car with one of her relatives. She hooked up with other friends during the event. When it came time to return to Minneapolis, Mayo and I decided to travel together. The main leg of the journey involved riding the rails from the Portland train yard to Minneapolis. We had a long hike from a bus station to the train yard. I grew discouraged, tired under the weight of my backpack. Mayo told me our destination was just ahead, around that bend, or over that rise. He began to lose credibility with each repetition of encouragement.

But at last we came to an area where a few people were gathered around a campfire. We shared the last of our loaf of bread with a young man traveling from Tipperary, Ireland. I was concerned about having enough bread to keep us during the long train ride. Mayo assured me we could hike to a store and buy a loaf in the morning. But our train was ready for departure sooner than expected and we had to climb aboard one of the freight cars, breadless, before it set off.

We boarded a freight car that was transporting automobiles. The vehicles were parked on a scaffolding in several tiers, one above another, and the 'walls' of the transporting car were more a perforated metal grill. As we scrambled aboard, I spotted a small valise lying abandoned in the otherwise empty car. I opened it up to find - a loaf of bread. An unopened package of whole wheat bread. Plenty to keep us for the long, uncomfortable journey.

(To follow up: I'd been anticipating returning to my life and friends in Minneapolis, but Mayo had been assuming we'd do something else (marry? Join a commune? never really clear on that) and didn't seem interested in the Minneapolis fandom community. He decided to return to Washington state by the same means we'd come.)