Each year a tem­po­rary vil­lage of 15,000 peo­ple springs up out of the for­est over a few weeks time. Saplings and dead­fall are cut to form long coun­ters, kitchens, serv­ing ta­bles. Clay pat­ted by many hands into hearths, around metal drums to form ovens. Slen­der men and women scam­per up trees, tow­ing ropes to the high­est branches, stretch­ing taut tarps that shel­ter a hun­dred from sum­mer rain­storms. Wood is gath­ered.

The kitchens go in first, in choice lo­ca­tions, some near mead­ows, down­hill from water. Grav­ity, and do­nated dol­lars, run the water fil­ters. Camps grow around the kitchens. A place to fire sit, play music, and sing. Where you qui­etly wan­der in the morn­ing, hold­ing your bowl, fill­ing it first with smoky black cof­fee, then oat­meal. Sit­ting around the re­mains of last night’s fire, feed­ing it for the new day.

You wan­der from your home kitchen to an­other, your feet adding to the thou­sands of foot­steps form­ing the net­work of paths be­tween them. The hand-painted map at Cen­tral Sup­ply, near the rap sheets and mes­sage boards, shows the net­work you’re form­ing. Dif­fer­ent each year, for each for­est, each state. Feet on the land, Rain­bow Peo­ple gath­er­ing.

The way to Lovin’ Ovens is easy to find by smell. Dough in the for­est. Rolls for thou­sands at din­ner cir­cle need knead­ing all day. You’ll help for a few hours this morn­ing, cir­cled up to the 8’ x 12’ ply­wood tres­tle table, cov­ered first in plas­tic, then a dust­ing of flour. Three peo­ple grunt as they up-end a 100 gal­lon tup­per­ware of first rise dough.

Dough-cut­ter-wield­ing bak­ers divvy out five pound sec­tions to each bleach-wa­ter-clean pair of wait­ing hands. Knead like this: fold in half like a lover, turn a quar­ter turn, re­peat until your thumbprint bounces back just right.

The af­ter­noon is spent ex­plor­ing: a cup of chai and a quiet heart-to-heart with a stranger, sit­ting on cush­ions under ta­pes­tries hang­ing in the pines.

The dis­cov­ery of Ham­mock Vil­lage, where a beau­ti­ful woman rocks in a third story ham­mock, play­ing the ac­cor­dion with her toes and singing with her eyes closed.

In­stant Soup is cook­ing up their tenth caul­dron of the day, and you help peel and chop a mound of gar­lic as big as a baby, des­tined for a pot you could bathe chil­dren in. Just as you fin­ish, forty pounds of pota­toes ar­rive from Cen­tral Sup­ply in a wheel­bar­row with moun­tain bike tires.

Rest­ing in a patch of sun, smelling the gar­lic on your hands, you watch the nud­ist pa­rade pass by on the main trail, bang­ing pots and pans, pick­ing up in num­bers. That the hairy man in the back has a tag of TP stuck to his butt does not deter peo­ple from strip­ping down and join­ing.

You’ve heard that the ket­tle corn kitchen is mak­ing chile-brown-sugar next, and that start­ing at dark thirty, Lovin’ Ovens is mak­ing piz­zas ‘til sun­rise. And a kitchen to the south that sprung up yes­ter­day has spread word that they’ll be mak­ing pan­cakes through the night. It’s some­where down the trail past the place you had a cup of cof­fee strained through a dirty t-shirt while pole dancers per­formed on stripped trees.

You will find it, un­like the wan­der­ing sax­o­phone player who haunts the woods. You’ve been look­ing but you haven’t found him yet on the net­work of trails.

And you still haven’t got­ten the courage to cross the creek via the cat­a­pult bridge, pre­fer­ring in­stead the log bridges near the cir­cus tent Gra­nola Funk, where tal­ent shows and blue­grass hap­pen nightly. It’s a bit of a walk, but you also get to pass by the Shanti Sena medic out­post, C.A.L.M. and the Barter Cir­cle.

There, a novice tarot reader who gives you a read­ing in trade for the eagle feather in your hair, of­fers an ex­cuse to open up. In Tipi Vil­lage a man tells sto­ries from a richly il­lus­trated book. Up­hill, on the out­skirts of the gath­er­ing, Bus Vil­lage is filled with ve­hi­cles right out of Lloyd Kahn’s Tiny Homes – car­a­vans and painted school buses and home welded, half-this-half-that homes.

Walk­ing in a for­est path, head­lamp off so as not to blind those who can­not af­ford head­lamps, you find your way along the now fa­mil­iar trails, feel­ing for roots with your feet and the moon­light. An owl hoots, and then the shad­owy stumps begin wildy danc­ing, erupt­ing with beat­box­ing and strobe head­lamps. A dance am­bush!