by Peter Coyote
As I worked on the poles for the second day, I meditated on the social tensions in the Huerfano Valley. I could see that despite their poverty, the hippies were aristocrats in the valley and deeply resented. Their real wealth, aside from access to cash, consisted of their education, their social and political skills, and their mobility. They were not sharing these with the local shopkeepers and farmers and consequently not creating a common economy. Instead, they organized their own cooperatives and drove into Pueblo and Denver to buy food more cheaply than valley merchants could afford to sell it to them. They might have placed their orders through the local stores, allowing local merchants a commission that would have linked their economic fates. They might have been teaching local families how to cooperatize their purchasing as well. Even at Ortiviz Farm, land was lying fallow that might have been leased to local farmers, creating community and shared interests.
Only a common consciousness of place based on the Huerfano as a shared home could save the valley. Failing such an agreement, the hippies would eventually tire of the struggle to live there and move away, and the valley would be colonized by a new migration. A dialogue needed to be initiated. Did the inhabitants want wealth or stability, neighborliness or tourism? It occurred to me, as I peeled poles, that the worship of different gods in the same locale usually leads to war.
I was disturbed by these thoughts. They reminded me of an earlier campfire conversation with Ben Eagle. He had been railing against the Red Rockers, demeaning their collective efforts as a “white comfort trip,” berating them for possessions that came directly from the earth’s skin. He demanded to know in what way they reciprocated. From the minimalist perspective of his horseback mode of life, he was correct, but compared to most people in the United States, the Red Rocker per-capita use of energy and resources was minimal. I told Ben I thought he was being harsh but could appreciate that he’d set a standard for himself and was determined to take no more from the planet than he absolutely needed. We probed this point a long while, trying to determine the degree to which one’s personal ethical decisions are applicable to others and what, if anything, a universal ethical principle might be.
As I considered relationships in the valley from the perspective of this conversation, I became confused by an edgeless moral relativism, an inability to create a system of thought that might demonstrate “the good” self-evidently. On impulse, I put down my drawknife, placed the tanned coyote skin on my head, wrapping the front legs around my neck, and walked off. My shadow on the sandy ground had ears, and the thick fur disguised the outline of my human neck. I trotted around for more than an hour, breathing like a dog, clearing my head of all thoughts: I am something else, between animal and human.
I returned tired but unconflicted. The only solid ethical position I could determine, as true for dogs as for humans, is that place itself must be the determinant of how we live. Moving to Nevada and expecting to eat strawberries in January is indulgent, contrary to natural processes there, and thus unethical. The concept of a “national lifestyle” appeared ridiculous from this perspective, and I had a nightmarish mechanistic vision of people trying to transform topsoil, water, timber, and minerals in diverse environments into identical pickup trucks, snowmobiles, and gas ovens.
In the midst of these thoughts, Gristle sat down beside me and announced that he intended to stay in the valley and open a free store. He felt that a presence dedicated solely to the valley’s interests might serve as a first-line defense against predators from Denver and New York. Remembering Gristle’s dominant role in prior troubles at Bryceland, California, that culminated in the town’s being sacked and burned by people associated with our family, I listened skeptically, suddenly enervated. Common vision appeared to have evaporated from our camp, and I felt as solitary and self-contained as a stray dog.
Skinning the poles was finally completed, and the next several days were dedicated to clearing a tepee site and waiting for the peyote gatherers to return. I spent much time considering the prayer that I would offer at the meeting, how I would ask for vision, for common purpose, so that our various “sleeps” (my term for unconscious behavior) might end.
Finally the day arrived, yet not even a celebration could occur in our camp without some conflict. Lars from Triple A and Red Rocker Little Richard stopped Owl and me just outside the ceremonial tepee to warn us that the Cato Indians didn’t like owls or coyotes. According to Cato Indian lore, the owl was a backstabber (I don’t know what they thought about the eagle’s thieving and carrion eating), and Lars and Richard didn’t want to offend their guests. They were not too damn sure about me either, but I was dressed simply and rather formally out of respect, and carried only a striped blanket and one eagle feather. Owl amicably left his owl-wing fan outside, but our revenge lay in the fact that owls and coyotes virtually surrounded the tent, hooting and howling from a nearby grove throughout the meeting.
Inside the tepee, the floor had been swept clean. On the far side was a large, knitted U.S. flag without stars. I was told that someone’s wife had made it in jail. It hung over the officers: Lars, Little Richard, and Binjo, who were joined by a blond man I hadn’t met who would serve as the fireman. The flag made the tepee look like a kid’s fort; it embarrassed me.
The Indians were serene and physically strong. There were three of them: an old man, his grandson, and the grandson’s friend, a Vietnam vet who never removed his dark glasses.
A raised altar in the shape of a crescent moon had been fashioned from the soil on the floor in the center of the tepee. The tips of the moon pointed East toward the door, through which the morning light would eventually enter. A line bisected from tip to tip, and in the center of that line was the roadman’s “chief,” his largest, oldest peyote button. This button represented the sun, and the line was the sun’s path. The roadman, the official who runs the meeting, studies his chief button throughout the meeting, and old-timers claim that sometimes the cotton tufts on the cactus will glow, illuminating the world inside and outside the tepee. The fireman had cut and stacked enough wood to keep the fire going throughout the night.
The ceremony began with people being blessed with cedar smoke. A pigtailed Red Rocker, acting as the cedar chief, was fanning the smoke over our bodies with extremely balletic movements, which made it appear he was more interested in the ritual and paraphernalia than the essence of the ceremony. He spoke officiously, explaining the ceremony’s complicated rules and obligations interminably. The Indians tried to hurry him along, at first helpfully, then ironically, and finally scornfully. It was obvious that the white officers were not yet up to the task of running a meeting; though well intentioned, they were too inexperienced.
Like the native people, the caravan family members were restive but for different reasons. Our shibboleth and guiding principle was absolute freedom, and we tended to be competitive and a bit superior about our disregard for discipline of any kind. Superficial readings of ancient “crazy-wisdom” literature and stories about eccentric Zen adepts all supported illusions of a freedom supposed to exist independently of limits.
The peyote was passed around, and the drumming, rattling, and singing commenced. I had never heard anything quite like it before. One man beat the drum at about double the speed of a human heartbeat. The rhythm was absolutely regular and without accents or syncopation. Another man at his shoulder flicked a small rattle made from a polished gourd with a tuft of hair sticking up from the top; the handle was elaborately beaded with tiny cut-glass beads. The gourd peyote rattles have seven “stars” in them, little glass beads or pebbles of just the right size to make the sound that peyote people favor. He also held a fan made from the tail feathers of a bird, perhaps a magpie, set into another elaborately beaded handle. I had never seen such beautifully crafted objects before; it was obvious that they had been constructed with devotion and unwavering dedication. Each feather was held in a little buckskin socket, and the rim of each tiny socket was dressed with multicolored down. The
firelight glimmered on the facets of the beaded handle.
As the “medicine” took effect, the singing drew my attention. Two men harmonized the curious peyote songs, with intricate rhythms and subtle, unexpected shifts of emphasis. Peyote language comes from the cactus itself, and a song is a gift from Mescalito, the peyote spirit. It is neither Spanish nor Indian but a language of its own; I had the feeling that if I were one notch higher it would have made perfect sense. Each singer followed the other a millisecond of a beat behind, as close as a dog chasing a dodging rabbit. To heighten the mysterious effect, they employed a kind of ventriloquism, rolling the song around the interior walls of the tepee over and behind the heads of the participants.
The throbbing from the water drum filled every available space; you could feel it in your ribs, pressing on your heart, blotting superficial thoughts from the mind. The coals from the fire glowed, filling the worshipers with amber light as if they were luminaria. The combination of sound and light, the scents of cedar and sage, together with the absolute concentration of the participants were mesmerizing: an optimal environment for transcendence.
People offered prayers for loved ones or requested aid. There was no grandstanding or false piety, and deviations from correct behavior were marked publicly in a curious fashion. Others besides myself were disturbed by the pomposity of the meeting’s officers, but they were our hosts so it was improper to be critical. However, when Gristle made a sly sideways comment about the cedar chief, the words “wise guy” materialized suddenly as a disembodied whisper that circumambulated the tepee like a ghostly bird, marking Gristle’s behavior for all to apprehend and consider.
Though he was in error for speaking out rudely, Gristle was not the only one affected by the officers’ posturing. When the hippie fireman faltered, one of the Indians assumed his duties, stoking the fire with expert care. Watching him, I was struck by the difference between doing something and pretending to do it (a critical distinction for an actor). The native man dropped his self-conciousness completely to dedicate himself to the task at hand. He had no attention left over to consider what he might look like.
At a certain point in the proceedings, when the officers were muddling over some arcane procedure, the native man in the sunglasses addressed the meeting in frustration. In a tearful and passionate voice, he explained that the peyote ritual was the “last chance for native people,” that its rituals and rules had been set by the Creator himself, and it was not appropriate to take any liberties with them. The man was genuinely upset. He said he was a Vietnam vet and had seen and done things in Vietnam that made him want to change his life and follow the peyote road. In his face and body were great strength of purpose. I was chastened by his speech and reconsidered my own readiness to throw away forms and conventions without considering how my behavior might affect people who held them dear. For the second time (my hepatitis-enforced vacation at Olema being the first), I took the value of limits into serious consideration.
As the night passed, the Red Rocker “officials” became progressively more pinched and wizened. They appeared prematurely aged and anxious while the Indians, sitting ramrod straight, seemed increasingly confident and relaxed. It was a stunning and unavoidable comparison.
Peyote is a teacher, and the manner in which it teaches is always unfathomable and mysterious. Smiling Mike from Black Bear, the man who had insisted on leaving with us in our overfull truck, sat opposite me in the circle. Throughout the trip, an edginess had divided us. Every time I caught his eye during the meeting he was staring at me fixedly, sending hostile vibrations in my direction. I have always had a good relationship with peyote, so I felt protected and did not take Smiling Mike’s intentions too seriously.
Late in the evening, I glanced over at him. For the first time, I saw him: him and not the projection of weakness, prideful arrogance, or compensating aggression he usually manifested. He was sitting quietly, proud and calm, completely himself. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance, and his face was suffused with wonder. He gazed about the tepee, studying everything as if it were all new and splendid to him. In the course of his survey, his eyes caught mine. Spontaneously, I pointed at him directly, grinned, as if to say, “That’s the guy I’ve been waiting for!” He smiled broadly, understanding me perfectly, and a wave of good feeling flowed between us, resolving the chafing that had haunted our relationship.
I spent the rest of the night clarifying fallacies in my thinking and investigating areas where I found myself wanting. High ideals and visionary brilliance were no substitute for daily practice grounded in spiritual insight. I was filled with respect for the perseverance of native people and for the ceremony itself. In the light of their self-effacing behavior and dedication, their conservative Western clothing and “squareness” took on a new significance to me.
In the morning, the fireman raked the night’s glowing coals into the shape of a phoenix, and the luminous, wavering hues emanating from them complemented a similar light apparently glowing from within each person and article in the tepee. Every time I looked at Sam, stars streamed from her eyes; she looked so beautiful that my heart fluttered with pride to know her, and to have a child with her. The glowing phoenix symbolized the rebirth of our collective and personal spirit, and when the morning sun streamed through the open tepee door and onto the altar, I thought it the holiest, most beautiful moment of my life, a direct communication from the Creator.
The meeting ended with a ritual feast of blue corn, fruit salad, and venison. The day was chilled by the first real premonition of autumn. People sat on the grass smoking and talking quietly. I lay down with Sam, Ariel, and Josephine, content, and napped most of the morning.
The Native American man in the sunglasses who had made the impassioned speech the night before came up to say good-bye, even though we had not been introduced. “You got a taste of it tonight,” he said to me. “I saw that. I hope you pay attention to what you learned.” I did pay attention, and practiced paying attention, but it took many more years before the insights of that evening even approached the consistency of habit.
I had accomplished everything I had come to Colorado to do, and it was time to leave for the East. I had postponed my return home indecently. I loaded the Meat and Bone Wagon with my family, my dog, and Chloe Bear’s teenaged daughter, Colleen, whom Sam at the last instant had decided to bring East as an au pair. Bill Caidell from Libré was taking a lift to the East Coast with us as well. A thickly built bartender from New York City, Bill claimed to have been a mercenary in South Africa, a specialist in explosives. Perhaps it was true, because one night en route while I slept, Bill, high on speed, blew the hell out of a piston, stranding us at 3:00 A.M. on a two-lane road in Wanatah, Indiana.
We were towed to a local wrecking yard. Bill called his brother to wire us money. The junk man allowed us to camp in his junkyard while we repaired the truck. He was fascinated with our truck, our homey campfires, and our skills at living rough. Every night after his own dinner, he joined us to smoke his pipe and listen to our music. He told stories about the glory days of his own youth, during the depression, when he’d hopped freight trains and wandered around the country much as we were wandering today. It was clear that those adventures and the sense of freedom the memories resurrected meant a great deal to him and colored the way in which he regarded us.
It was pleasant camping in the canyons of wrecked vehicles, propped on discarded truck tires, eating fry bread before a fire contained by a semitrailer’s wheel rim. Light glinted off the twisted chrome and glass, and eerie shadows poked and probed through the smashed car carcasses. This was the heart of the Midwest, real redneck country, but we never found the malignant spirits imagined in Easy Rider. This man adopted us warmly and shared his tools with easy generosity. The wind has whipped his name from my memory, but I am forever grateful.
Three days later we drove off, and two days after that, I pulled the Meat and Bone Wagon up the maple-shaded street of my boyhood town, into t
he driveway of the stately old house where I’d been raised.
21
roman candle
At number 90 Booth Avenue, in Englewood, New Jersey, is a dark-brown-shingled, three-story house with forest-green trim and a prominent porch that faces the street and continues around one side. The porch roof, like a skirt around the waist of the house, is supported by solid, tapered columns resting on generous sills. Colloquially known as “the hill,” my neighborhood was the prosperous ward of this well-to-do Manhattan suburb. The granite slab sidewalks were tipped by upthrust roots of stately maples, and the sunlight on the blacktop street was dappled and shaded by their green leaves. This house, where I spent much of my childhood and early teens, was the locus of as much complexity and countermanding signals as I could ever bear at any moment. Simultaneously a sanctuary and a source of menace, it proffered with bewildering irregularity both orderly calm and the roiling intensity of corrosive emotional turmoil.
During my early childhood, I often thought of the Booth Avenue house as an omnipotent and caring friend. The ancient, polished maple, walnut, and cherry of the bureaus, breakfronts, secretaries, and Queen Anne and Hepplewhite chairs emitted a glowing amber warmth. The silver salvers and tea services flecked the room with puffballs of reflected light and offered distorted views of the heavy drapes and valances embroidered with bucolic scenes, and the delicate white curtains that reduced outside views to impressionistic shimmers. The air was always fresh and scented with hints of starch and ironed linen. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books made the walls seem solid and fortified. I learned early that books could be an escape from the pressures building within those walls, allowing me to pass effortlessly through the their pages into the free zone of imagination.