Sunday, June 29
In 1972, disgruntled flower children realized they weren’t getting laid anymore and the debauchery of cocaine and disco remained the stuff of futuristic fantasy. They flocked to a forest in the wilds of Colorado and prayed for peace in a week of communal bliss. The rag-tag band of rebels known as the Rainbow Family continue to meet annually in lucky expanses of unspoiled wilderness.

Utah’s Uinta Mountains drew the short straw this year.

I keep an open mind as my car chugs up the winding mountain pass on a mission to blend into the gathering cornucopia of counter-culture. With an open mind, devoid of pre-conceived notions, I eagerly await my meeting with the unkempt hippie revellers having group sex and doing drugs in the muddy mountains above me. I am born anew. For once, I won’t be the guy who ran into Wizards and Dreams yelling, “If Jerry Garcia hadn’t died, I would’ve killed him with this rubber mallet.”

Having logged time at the Suge Knight Fantasy Camp and a Klan Rally/family reunion, my weighty credentials as an undercover journalist prepare me for the unexpected.

Monday, June 30
“Welcome home, brother.” I was greeted at the “gate” to the gathering with a patchoulli-soaked hug and a hearty bowl of “welcome soup.” The “denizens” of the rainbow “camp” divide daily “duties” equally “among” the self proclaimed “non-members.” The “camp” contains “several” communal “kitchens,” including a “site” outfitted for “Kosher” cuisine.

I helped myself to an ale described colorfully as “the bucket for tobacco spit” and soon encountered an ailment the poetic pranksters call “the shits.” A round of “vomiting my spleen across the room” followed soon after.

Tuesday, July 1
I can honestly say that I’ll never get sick of frenetic dancing. Nor will I ever tire of a dead-ringer for Gandolf the Wizard espousing his love for me a dozen times over hits of bong resin.

“The Man” infiltrated Camp Rainbow today. The bear-tagging bastards at the Forest Service received complaints from other campers about naked men walking up to a group of Girl Scouts and demanding pot roast and black-tar heroin. The five-O brought guns into a land of love and made us turn down The Best of Bread album we were jamming. We joined hands and sang “Itsy Bitsy Spider” as a form of protest.

Wednesday, July 2
All I can say is that there are two kinds of people in the world…those who get a sunburn on one arm while driving and those who do not.

	Undercover reporter Craig Froehlich plays the flute for "welcome soup" at this year's Rainbow Family Gathering.

Thursday, July 3
Well, I know what another word for “hippie toilet” is…it’s called a ditch.

The gathering is now a full fledged freakfest. Thousands of artists and vagabonds—and a variety of other people with aversions to bathing—approach me asking for money. An alcoholic with a lazy eye and a bad attitude offered to trade a cup of peanut butter with gravel in it for my Gore tex rain parka. I declined.

These people bastardize Eastern Religions faster than Madonna in a burka. The chants are never-ending and sometimes dancing can even be too frenetic for my tastes.

I met the future mother of a my children—a supple, young nymphet who promptly made out with a heavily pierced boy whose head resembled a fishing lure.

They call her Floppy Girl, due to her love for floppy straw hats or, perhaps, her decade-long rejection of brassieres.

Friday, July 4
Whoever says LSD won’t reveal God and all the heavens above never had a tree try to eat them.

A visit to Sir Dragon DumArse’s Acid Bath opened up a brave new world for me. In this world, I actually enjoy drum circles and try to sit down in the campfire every chance I get.

I made sweet love to Floppy Girl, only to discover it was actually Gandolf with a toilet seat on his head.

I was just happy to see an actual toilet seat for the first time in days.
craig@red-mag.com