I’m not a fan of the Rainbow folks. They are odd, strange people who like smoking marijuana. In my experience they are often so self-absorbed that they run roughshod over others.
So, I sympathize with the residents of the Black Hills, including some Native Americans, who aren’t happy that the commune-with-nature freaks are about to descend upon them in a torrent of bad behavior masked in a false façade of kumbaya spirit. The other day I happened upon the front page of the Rapid City Journal and read the story.
I had a thankfully brief experience with some of the Rainbow gang, years ago. A group of them had congregated in Oregon. It was probably one of their “regional” get-togethers.
While I was camping with a church group at Cape Perpetua on the Oregon coast, a large group of them banged drums and chanted into the wee hours of the morning. Meanwhile, I was trying to sleep. Their racket was driving me nuts.
I went so far as to walk into the middle of their gathering where I asked those who could or would pay attention to please quiet down. Many of them just laughed. My plea for peace and quiet was quite the hit. My presence was apparently very amusing to those assembled who were cognizant enough to recognize a stranger among them. I assumed they were in a drug-induced fog. It certainly looked like that way. Most, however, didn’t even acknowledge I was standing there. They were too wrapped up in themselves and their worlds to care.
After getting nowhere, I headed over to the camp host, who was staying in a big RV. I think I woke him from a soft slumber, which was understandable given the hour. His reaction was classic, after explaining that the damn hippies were making a lot of noise and keeping me up. It was the highlight of an otherwise dull evening.
“Oh, shit,” he said, with a look of real concern on his face.
He hurriedly walked down to the gathering. He may have even addressed the group. I hope he did. I don’t know because I left him to it and returned to my tent. He certainly looked like he was going to put an end to it. Sadly, however, there didn’t appear much he could do about it. No one listened.
Nor did anyone care. They were busy smoking their joints, hitting the drums, and communing with Mother Nature. I sure don’t understand why communing with nature and praying for a peaceful world can’t be quieter. The banging and commotion continued unabated for another hour or two. Finally, early into the morning, the noise started fading away. Even the smoke happy hippies were getting tired, thankfully. And I was able to get some shut eye.
I hope I never encounter them, or any of their like minded friends, again.