The forest rangers did not show up to open the roads, so all the brothers cleared the way. I almost lost my arm when we were getting the biggest log out of the way.

The days went by and I realized I had not had a beer in over a month.

Damn I felt healthy.

It was time to go.

After goodbyes, Giver kicked down a blanky for my very own.

Caught a ride with the camp shuttle into Ridgeway. Then another ride in the bed of a pickup truck � he let me off in the middle of nowhere so I walked a good five miles. I found ten beers on the side of the road an man, they sure tasted good.

A semi stopped and drove me to the eastern part of New York state.

I slept�.

In the morning two rides got me to B-town once again.

�Where�s your dog?�

�Where have you been?�

�Why do you smell like a hippie?�

At camp once again, Nick and I sat quietly watching the fire�.

A week later at the soup line a friend of mine said that there was a regional Rainbow going down in southern Vermont soon.

That night while Nick was sleeping I drank beer while watching the fire.

All of a sudden Hilda ran to me and damn near tackled me to the ground, Bobby in tow.

Evidently a ranger told him not to park next to the natural gas line, and he was forced to leave. He found his cousin and was looking for me, but his cousin�s bitching drove him to drop the bitch off back in Massachusetts.

He threw my gear down and introduced me to two others with him. There was his nephew, �Chris�. He had muscle for his 5�4� height. The other was Bobby�s Uncle �John�.

They had brought a lot of booze and I told them they were welcome to stay at my camp.

Hildegard played happily with Bobby�s dog Sydney in the forest.

I told the trio about the regional and we agreed to go there on the first because Nick, Bobby, and Uncle John were getting money from the government. We would have about $2,500.00 to play with. We had a week to blow.

We wreaked havoc in that week, accumulating another brother we called �Ape Man Tony�. One buff mother fucker. At that time a lot of hippies started rolling into town and my camp probably had a dozen strong camping there.

We had all caught dysentery because everyone ate some bad barbecue we had.

One time, all six of us were riding in the van to the liquor store, Bob driving. For some odd reason we were not asking for change, we were asking for homebum poop. Bob would come to a stoplight and ask out the window, �Excuse me sir, but could I trouble you for some homebum poop?�

Things started getting out of hand�.

One night we rolled into camp and trashed it. Not only ours, but all the other hippie�s camps that were in the vicinity. We didn�t steal anything, we just destroyed everything.

Through the rubble I gathered my rucksack with blanky, some rope, a hatchet, a tarp, and my treasured Korean War E-tool.

This E-tool was different from any other army ordinance E-tools, not because of its age, but for the fact that it had a pick on the opposite end of the shovel�s tip.

It was time to leave.

�Load up,� Bob would say.

All six of us sat comfortably in the van. There was a portable TV, a radio, and an electric cooler that ran from the battery of Bobby�s van. You would simply plug it into the outlet of the van�s cigarette lighter. One would have cold beer then�.

It was a two-hour drive to the forest. Once in Bennington, VT, we gained directions to the site from a hippie. When we were driving there, Bob spotted the pile of rocks that was used to mark the trails. We hit a gravel road then, and picked a good spot. It was a spot 15 yards in diameter, then it dropped down into the forest floor about ten yards. It would be hard for any �A� campers to raid our camp. One would have to climb up, only to find us well-armed vigilantes sharpening knives and hatchets while drunk.

The firepit was there and we set up a 20-foot tarp about ten feet high above the fire. It damn near covered half the camp. I set up a lean-to that would keep four people dry if it rained. Bob hung his hammock up and I built a kitchen with three five-gallon buckets for washing dishes. One for regular water, a second one for bleach, and a third for rinse water. We had pots, pans, plates, and two coolers, but no provisions.

Bobby, Nick, and Uncle John went out into town while Chris, Ape Man Tony, and I picked wood. Hilda and Sydney were tied at separate ends of the camp. We started a fire when night came and I put a grill on top of the firepit.

The seed camp was about a half-mile down the road. At that time there were about 50 hippies camped there.

Seed camp consists of trail blazers who would determine which part of the National forest the main meadow would be.

We were wise not to put stakes down near the peace-loving hippies because of what would happen that undoubtedly got us run off three week later.

I built a tripod out of five sticks while Tony took a piece of cardboard about three feet by four feet and drew up our camp sign.

We sat this next to the entrance.

The van rolled up and Bob pulled the speaker of his van out so we had tunes.

They brought one keg of beer, two half-gallons of whiskey, and two pounds of tobacco. There was also a box of 40 hamburger patties, five packs of hot dogs, bread, sauces, pancakes, mix, and other condiments.

We were ready.

That night we raised hell. Bobby took all of his clothes off and would greet hippies driving to seed camp. They would HAVE to go by our camp cuz there was no other road leading in.

Chris took two lawn chairs and set them on each side of the road. He then put a small log the length of the road on the chairs, therefore blocking anyone�s way to the seed camp.

You could not imagine the reactions the hippies had on their faces.

They thought they would be greeted by flower children with butterflies on their shoulders. But NOOOO!

There was a naked ogre-looking guy, seven feet tall, beer in hand and a hatchet in the other.

We were loaded�.

I liked our camp. It was the best gathering I had ever been to.

The next day I woke up early at 5:00 am. Maybe gained four hours of sleep. Bobby (fully clothed) was awake sitting at the fire with whiskey.

Silently, we drank and smoked cigarettes. He told me a story�

Back in Desert Storm he was a mercenary. Evidently during training they shot him up with Anthrax and other shit so he would be immune.

He told me he was in prison when he enlisted. Thus he became cannon fodder.

When these mercenaries and Bobby were all drinking at this table a Commanding Officer rolled in the room. �Who here is drunk?� he demanded.

�I am.� Bobby declared, while holding a bottle of whiskey aloft.

The C.O. spoke with a finger pointing towards him: �We have a mission for you.�

Before Bobby knew it he was driving a diesel 18-wheel tanker, refilling tanks and jeeps along the desert highway. The whole time, Bobby drank whiskey, getting shot at and all.

The CB kept squelching, �Bobby, where are you?�


The sun started to rise and Bobby cooked eggs and sausage with coffee. The boys started waking up.

Somberly, Nick rolled a cigarette and said, � Hilda�s pussy was pretty good last night.�

Everyone gave Nick a strange look.

�Your not my brother,� I said.
We finished the keg at 10am and Bob, Nick, and I went into town to get another.

Bobby let me drive and it was nice to be behind the wheel again.

The scenery was beautiful. Mountains and log houses.

We picked up a hitchhiker who proved to be a real idiot.

We stopped at a general store along the state highway. Nick wanted a beer.

The idiot followed, stumbling all over the place. He crawled up the steps to the store.

Nick came out of the side door, 40oz in hand. Jumping in the van, he said, �Let�s roll,� and added, �FUCK HIM.�

Bobby started laughing.

The van responded well to my controlling.

Back in town we turned int eh empty keg for another. Also, we bought more food, and two more half gallons of whiskey.

While driving back, we passed the general store again and saw two cop cars in front with that same idiot on the ground while cops were subduing him.

We laughed our heads off all the way to camp.

We all knew that belligerent idiot dug his own grave.

Back at camp we just drove right by, much to the dislike of Chis, Uncle John and Ape Man. We decided to check out seed camp.

The hippies jumped out of the way when Bobby instructed me to put that pedal to the floor.

The van came to a complete stop right in front of their main fire.

Hippies are funny when they get mad. They would say, �Hey brother, why drive so fast, man, that ain�t mellow.�

�Welcome home, brother.�

�Lots of love, brother bear.�

�Peace.�

�Let�s GET OUT OF HERE!� Nick cried.

Bobby and I started laughing and brought our dogs out and hung out with the hippies.

When dealing with hippies one will get a lot of scorn and animosity.

Even if you mind your own business they will ridicule, steal, gaffle, and then beat you down.

Bobby and I know how to deal with animosity, just laugh in their faces. Nevertheless we gained new comrades and invited them for booze at poop camp.
When we arrived back at poop camp Chris had taken green dye and doused himself with it - that dye victims use on muggers, that way the police have no problem identifying the suspect.

He looked like the Incredible Hulk on crack.

Uncle John just sat there on a lawn chair sipping beer.

Tony was using a pine cone to scrub the pots and pans with. Nature�s scrubber.

We sat around getting loaded, when I decided to dig a latrine. I went out about 20 yards with my Korean war E-tool and dug a rectangular hole in the ground about one foot deep and five feet wide.

It was nice to reflect on the vast openness of the forest. No police to tell you that you can�t sit. No boss to tell you you�re fired. No girlfriend to hold you back.

Hilda and I sat there away from everyone listening to the hell being raised back at camp. It grew in volume so I decided to go back.
The reason they were getting loud was because some hippie girls came down and started getting loaded with us. We had a good ole�time. We all woke up with women. Tony found a sweat hog, Chris found a hole in the ground, Hilda was my bitch, Nick�s dame was a piece of poop, and Bobby kept singing this all night:

A Garcia tune, �Come feel Uncle John�s hand�� and so on.

The next day Bobby said he had to go back to Brockton Massachusetts for date and asked if I would drive him there and back.

Uncle John came with us too. Said he wanted to go home. And of course the dogs went with us everywhere.

The drive to Bobby�s home took about eight hours.

The cabin he resided in was beautiful. He lived with his parents.

They were nice people.

We then went to Bobby�s cousin�s house. Uncle John�s house. Seemed there were nothing but cabins all around.

We started a fire in the yard and drank beer, letting the dogs run around. Bobby�s whole family were all cool people.

The next day we went to Plymouth Massachusetts and while Bob was in court I saw her for the first time. The Atlantic Ocean.

Plymouth rock was down the road from the courthouse and Hilda and I looked at a remake of the Mayflower still floating out there.

I had never seen the ocean before.
It was nightfall when we started driving back to Vermont. The road swerved through the mountains like a snake. This was Mohawk country.

Bobby told me a story about a time when he was hitching through these mountains and this guy that picked him up had a gun�

When we reached camp minus Uncle John the fire had not been tended to.

Evidently Tony had left with a woman. Poop Camp was falling apart.

I quickly gathered wood in the dark and got the fire going.

Nick and Chris were passed out drunk.

Bobby and I sat around the fire when a jeep rolled up and five people jumped out. Three guys and two dames.

These were rednecks we were drinking with. One of them was so proud of being a redneck he proved it by pulling his pants down and there, on the right buttock cheek was tattooed: �100% redneck�. They had also brought us deer venison steaks. They were cool locals.
Rainbows are always hated by small town locals at first, but all the money spent by the Rainbow family made these small towns prosperous. Locals hated it when we would leave.

That night I slept well.
I woke up before dawn to the sound of Hilda growling.

I quickly grabbed my E-tool and took stock of camp. I had the keg tied up real good next to my lean-to and that idiot hitchhiker was trying to untie it.

�You have exactly three seconds to get the hell out of here, motherfucker.�

I didn�t give him three seconds. I unclipped Hilda and she attacked him, ripping his pants leg and drawing blood.

I retrieved Hilda and told the fucker, �GO�, pointing the E-tool out of camp.

I never seen a motherfucker run so fast.

Since I was up, Hilda and I collected wood and got the fire going.

I cooked pancakes and coffee while I finished off a quarter of the half gallon of whiskey that I slept with.
That time alone I still treasure to this day. Not a sound except for the fire and mother nature�s animals.

Hilda loved to chase squirrels. All I hyad to say was, �Get squirrel,� and she�d go running off. Gus trained her well. The snap of a finger and she would sit and lift her paw to shake hands with whoever was there. I loved that dog.

There were only four of us now: Nick, Chris, Bobby, and I.

The boys woke up separately and began to get loaded when all of the sudden hippies rolled up with marijuana brownies.

We ate them.

Before the hippies left I hard one of them whisper, �We ought to sleep good tonight.�

It was a set up. The hippies couldn�t take the noise we made at night. Could they hear us half a mile away?

One hour later, we were laid out�
When we woke up it was about three in the morning. We started drinking again and this couple rolled up.

This is the fucked up part. While they all were talking I sat quietly drinking beer and trying to figure out where to go next.

I must have �Fuck wit� me� written on my forehead �cause the couple started cutting me down.

Maybe it was the booze�

Maybe it�s because I didn�t say anything�God forbid.

Anyway I just smiled. The couple got in their car but before they left the guy yelled,

�Fuck you, General.�

�Load up,� Bob said. So Chris, Bobby and I jumped in the van and chased them down the mountain, reaching speeds of 80 miles an hour. They were scared. Once in town we came to a stoplight and I jumped out, rolled over to the car, and started punching the window. I wanted to rip his fuckin� throat out�why shake me down when I�m minding my own business?

They ran the red light and almost made a real nice accident.

I jumped back in the van. �Fuck �em, they�ll think twice about going back to the gathering.�
I really should have this tattoo that says, �Fuck wit� me� removed from my forehead.
As the sun rose bringing another beautiful day we arrived back at camp.

Nick was passed out in the driveway leading to our camp. Rain soaking him to the bone. Bottle of whiskey five feet from him.

We were down on the keg so we went into Bennington to smell some tarmac and good smelling people.

Took stock on gain. One keg of beer, one pound of tobacco, five packs of bratwurst, and one lighter.

That night another van rolled up�

That�s when we met �Mumba Jumba� and his girl �Mumba Jumbet.� Evidently they needed a driver for their van. They were heading to Florida. Daytona Beach, Florida.

I had volunteered, being an excellent driver.

The next day, after goodbyes and beer, I jumped into the van.

That thing was a piece of shit. Start on second gear until you hit 30 miles per, then jack it in first, and when you hit 60 miles per, switch that fucker to drive.

Kind of confusing.

There were four other people with �Spanky�, the gutter punk and his dog �Bitch�, this couple that were constantly on LSD, and Nick.

Mumba Jumba, who shook a big stick with bead on it, would say:

�You go out and chip wood while I molest a seven-year-old girl,� much to Mumba Jumbet�s disgust.

We began our trip south�

Mumba and Mumba Jumbet drove a white car in front of us the whole way.
New York City�

Spanky drove and suffered slight road rage.

Knife in hand he began talking naughty things towards New York citizens.

Manhattan Island, we parked our cars and saw the sights. This cement jungle was quite a difference from the moments of solitude in the forest.

In the park you would have your players and panhandlers.

Drinking proved to be very hard with the bike cops constantly surveying the park. Nick and I would drink in the hood, watching the van and car.

This wingnut rolled over to us and talked for an hour straight.

We did not understand one word.

The next day we set out again. The couple dropped LSD and afterwards thus got in an argument in the van.

Snapping my twig I drove into a rest station and sat outside with Hilda smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer.

A little respite from the long drive, we camped there somewhere in Virginia.

The next day we made Florida and luckily the van decided to die there.

I had never been to Florida and found out rather quickly that the so-called law did not take kindly to vagrants.

I had lost every one that night and found myself wandering around with Hilda and my rucksack, E-tool protruding out of it.

After the second day I decided to leave. Two tramps with rucksacks had gotten put in jail for sitting on the sidewalk.

Loneliness is cool at times, but after that third week in Ridgemond, Virginiain it set in hard.

That kind of loneliness that makes you talk to yourself.

I had become a wingnut in Ridgemond. On top of this Hurricane Floyd slowed my way.

I found refuge under a Border�s bookshop overhang. I spent three days under there with Hilda on top of my blanket � dog food and water there.

I sat there reading books that I dumpster dived.

People were giving me money left and right. I had accumulated over a hundred dollars.

There is a coffee shop in the bookstotre and this pretty lady that worked there would share her lunches and bring me free coffee.

When the sun finally shined I rolled over to the train yard and discovered a beautiful bridge with homebum poop strewn about and a couch that was torn and dirty.

That night, no train runnin�, beer in my hand, I decided to sleep.

Again I awoke to the sound of Hilda growling.

E-tool in hand, I unleashed Hilda and the next thing I seen was this motherfucker running away with baseball bat in hand.

�Hilda!� I yelled, and she obediently ran back to me.

Beer in hand, sleep did not happen that night.
After deciding against riding the rails I took my chances hitchhiking.

Three weeks I made B-town, VT.

Most of my friends were gone, being that winter was on its way. It was a good summer.

I spent my time mostly to myself collecting bottles and cans with a shopping cart - Hilda tied to it.

One day these two gentlemen offered me work painting.

That was cool �cuz I gained some respect for myself. They would let me drink beer and they even brought out a radio for me to listen to.

Snow started falling so there was no more work.

Some friends of mine built a nice camp. They were professional at building winter camp. One guy used a huge tent and then put a smaller tent inside the larger one. Tarp on top and a few blankets, he slept warm.

One day an Italian friend named Jessie had a box of wine. We were pretty loaded and we walked around town without the burden of Hilda. I left her at camp and the last thing I seen of her was Hilda running out in the forest.

Jessie and I turned the corner and Jessie panhandled these three guys and as a response one of them spit on me. Next I pushed him to the ground and then nailed the other while I pulled out a BIG FUCKIN KNIFE.

I walked away from those punks and before I knew it I was sitting in jail.

For six months I sat in that jail wondering what happened to Hilda.

One day the guard rolled up.

�Pack your shit, punk � you�re out of here,� he said.

There is nothing like walking out of the joint. The air, the freedom. Things taken for granted.

My first mission was to find Hilda, but evidently one of my good friends took her, got drunk, went to jail, and so did Hilda.

It was time to leave. I would never see jVermont again.
Back in Minnesota my f friends wanted nothing to do with me.

I ended up in jail for a few days for fighting and I decided to leave that damn state for good.

And I did, that Spring, and tramped harder than most people ever did.

Hitchhiked to Ames, Iowa, where I gained work, accumulating $100. Then hitched to Des Moines where I scored more worked about $600 and I wanted to see the West.

I busted my ankle in a train jump gone wrong so I took Greydog to Portland Oregon�

So there it was. The Pacific. Limping on my bad ankle one day, I met a guy that I would see in five other states.

Howie Wimberly.

The National Rainbow Gathering was about to go down in Montana and all the hippies were rolling into town.

I would panhandle with all the Flinstone Kidz on Morrison and camp under the Hawthorne Bridge.

One night I went with Howie to his camp. It was a bandshell with bathrooms and electricity. Howie had a small black and white TV in there and we would get loaded.

One morning I had found $190 so I decided to hit the Rainbow. I met this Vietnam veteran with a truck who had never been to a Gathering.

Rubber trampin,� we hit cities like Olympia, Seattle, Missoula (cool town) and then the gathering.

We spent one night there then we left. It was too early still and there was hardly anyone there � so we dedided to travel around a bit. We hit cities like Idaho Falls, Ogden (good trainyard), Rock Springs, and then Cheyanne, Wyoming, where we parted.

That feeling when you just want to be alone hit me.

In Cheyanne I caught a ride from a cute Nazi to Denver, Colorado. Spent a day there because at that time homeless people were being killed, so I decided to go to Boulder, Colorado.

Boulder�s a cool town and it just so happens to be my cousin�s hometown.

I found my two cousins, Skip and Josh, so I threw into their gang. Scored work roofing and couch surfed at Skip�s friends houses.

One night on College Hill I met a girl named Natalia. She had just turned 18 and wanted to go to the Gathering.

�What the hell,� I said, and took a leave of absence from work.

Hitchin� with a lesbian sure was cool � �cuz dames make more money panhandling than guys.

We hopped train in Cheyanne and ended up in Salt Lake City, then hitched all the way to the Gathering.

They had changed the site to Jackson Hole, a really, really small town.

I split from Natalia and worked at a kitchen called: �MUD FLATS�. A lot of coffee was distributed here, thus the name �MUD FLATS�.

Spent a couple of weeks there and who should I see but Uncle Howie from Portland. I also met Mumba Jumba and Mumba Jumbette. Also a childhood friend named Hash. Met people from previous gatherings as well. After two weeks of that shit I went back to Boulder, Colorado.
One day after work I bought a shit load of booze and shared with everyone I seen.

This guy I never met rolled up and took a bottle of vodka from me so I beat the shit out of him.

That night while I was walking around this same motherfucker rolled up with a couple of his homeboys. He had rings on his fingers with spikes on them.

�Alright, muthafucker � let me count the ways!� I said.

Then there was a tap on my shoulder. There I looked into the eyes of one big F.T.R.A. train tramp. I could tell from the black bandanna around his neck.

He handed me a knife and walked away.

�Alright mother fuckers, let�s go!� I declared.
Thus taking me back to jail�.

Boulder County jail was the best jail I had ever been to. This fucker had carpet!

I was looking at 30 days, an easy stint compared to Vermont.

I laughed the whole time.
Back on the street I seen Howie again.

�Quit following me.�

I met this guy named Ben who I had met at the Montana Gathering so we threw in together and decided to travel back to Chicago.

Back in Cheyanne we hopped a train to North Platte, Nebraska, where we almost got busted by the bulldogs.

We hitched to a town in Iowa called Marshalltown.

I started getting sick of hanging out with Ben. That feeling that everyone gets with anyone.
I sat by myself in the Marshalltown train yard drinking by myselt when a train stopped right in front of me.

�Fuck it.�

On the train I got really drunk and passed out in the gondola.

Wjhen I woke up I was near Quad City, Iowa. Landed a job helping this guy butcher his house. We had no idea what we were doing.

One day when I walked up to the house I had realized just how fucked up the house was.

I lost all pride in myself and hit the rails again.

Ended up in some small town 30 miles west of Ames, Iowa.

Hitched back to Ames and there I stayed.

Within six months I traveled from Vermont, hit the West, and ended in the middle of the USA.

I be one tired motherfucker.

It was August and I stayed homeless in that town until the middle of December when the police found me in 20-below, three feet of snow � they brought me to the looney bin.

Doctor: �Are you out of your mind?�

General: �Just let me out of here.�

Doctor: �Are you out of your mind?�

General: �I need a beer.�

Doctor: �Are you out of your mind?�

And so on.

The doctor paid for a ticket to Phoenix, Arizona, and it was strange to watch all the snow disappear the farther south I went.

I hate Phoenix � first some guy comes up from behind me and smacks me in the back of my skull. The pipe broke in two and when I turned to confront him he ran like a bitch. Second thing was the damn law. So I decided to leave. I went to Casa Grande where I landed work and met this Indian girl named Mary.

She wanted to go to Mexico so we loaded up her car and traveled to Mexico City.

My Spanish isn�t that good but I did manage to make jokes with all the vatos.

One night Mary wanted to go out but I just wanted to sleep. One can get pretty damn loaded on $5.00 in Mexico and man, I was hammered.

She went out while I slept and in the middle of the night she wakes me up crying. Evidently she had been raped.

My first reaction was anger at how she could get into that situation but then my feelings were filled with regret that I did not go with her.

So we left good ole Mexico and went back to Casa Grande.

One morning I decided to go to California so I hit the road again and ended up in Yuma, Arizona.

Who should I see but that motherfucker Uncle Howie.

We built a camp on the California side of the Colorado River and a fine camp it was, with its fire pit.

We would panhandle beer and smokes and stayed drunk a good three months.

Then we decided to go to San Francisco and here I�ve been, except for the occasional trip to Venice Beach, L.A.

Had this girl for a while; her name was Debra. She died recently and in my midnight walks I talk to her.

All the walking dead think I�m some kind of crazy but they really don�t care. All the vampires at late hours do is smoke crack while I sit in some alley with a 40oz.

I�d see my delinquent friends and they would ask:

�Where have you been?�

I would reply:

�Visiting an old friend.�
I sit in this skid row room the government pays for and try to figure out where to travel to.

Looking back, I figure this country has given everything it can offer.

Maybe England�.

I don�t know; maybe Brazil.

But for now I�m taking a break from that damn road. This one friend always tells me once you have traveling in your blood it never goes away. There�s a line one crosses that can never be retracked.
For now though I�ll just stick to travellin� to the BEER STORE.


THE END