This photo was taken 14 years ago. Just yesterday I made a September journey back to the Big Meadow in the Allegheny National Forest where I first discovered the wonderful Rainbow Family all the way back in 2010. In July of that year, this lonely clearing in the national forest was a temporary home to 12,000 visitors from all over the country, as the Rainbows came together to dance, and make music, and reunite, and ultimately, on Independence Day, to unite their spiritual energies envisioning peace on earth. The first time I went to Big Meadow, the way was clear and well marked. But that was long ago. Most recently, it took me five attempts to finally re-find this hallowed ground, pictured above and below. All I remembered was that you had to follow a gated lane that branched off Forest Road 119, opposite the Hickory Creek Wilderness. On my first three attempts, I chose the wrong gated lane. The fourth time, I found the right lane but had my daughter's miniature Schnauzer with me, and the poor little dog couldn't jump all the trees that had fallen over the faded path. The fifth time? The fifth time was yesterday, and it was glorious. See below.
This is what the Big Meadow looks like today. My original post on the old blog estimates that it's three miles from Forest Road 119, which is indeed correct--though I did not have a pedometer back in those days! But the old path out to Big Meadow is long since overgrown and beset with many a fallen tree. It disappears altogether once you get into the valley of Queen Creek, where beavers have made the floodplain swampy. The valley is abuzz with mosquitoes. It was not easy to get here, but get here I did! The water levels were low in 2010. A drought had left the forest dry as dust. There was a drought this year as well, but yesterday we had the long, gentle, soaking rain that we waited for all summer. And yesterday was the day that the Sisters of Fate...or Holy Providence...or Dumb Luck had appointed for my much-anticipated return to Big Meadow. I got saturated. I slogged through the foot-deep water of Queen Creek, not worrying about wet feet. On the far side, I struggled up the bank through the tall milkweeds and fading goldenrods. But then I saw it, and I had to catch my breath. There it was, as unmistakable as Eden. It was the Big Meadow I'd last seen fourteen years prior, the same but different, now so silent and still. I tell you, I only spent about an hour in this place on that dry July day so long ago, but when I rediscovered it yesterday in the autumn rain, I felt as if I'd just stepped inside a cathedral. It felt hallowed, familiar but unknowable. A holy hush fell over me. It was awe-inspiring, magical. See below:
There's something especially sacred about finding yourself alone in a place that you've only known as crowded. But it's more than that. The place did feel...sacred somehow. Maybe it was the four failed attempts to get here and the difficult bushwhack on the fifth that gave it such an awe-inspiring vibe. I don't know, but I felt like this was a place where beautiful things had happened, where wonderful potential lingered in the soil and in the trees. Back in 2010, the trail led across the low heights that stand above the creek, so you ended up descending into the Big Meadow, as seen in the pic below. I remembered yesterday that the old approach was from above, that you descended down into the large clearing. But that path has been lost for over a decade. This time, bushwhacking, I had given up on the heights and decided to follow the stream more closely. The large glade was so alive with music and movement and dance on that long-ago day! Even if the trail had not been clear (which it was) I could have followed my ears to find it. The only people who come here now are hunters, fishers, maybe the rare backpacker who travels trackless forests by orienteering...and sentimental fools like me. Look below at the way the trail went downward into the meadow. Here's another photo from 2010, the descent:
Oh, I don't know what I believe about the Jungian concept of meaningful coincidence, or "synchronicity." But I tried five times to reach the Big Meadow, which is three miles from the nearest dirt road. Even on this most recent (successful) attempt, I entered Forest Road 119 from the south and found an enormous fallen tree blocking the roadway about one mile in. I had to drive the car in reverse for a quarter mile till I found a spot in the road that was wide enough to turn around. I then had to drive all the way around the Hickory Creek Wilderness to arrive at the north end of Forest Road 119, making my approach from the north. And just as I turned onto Forest Road 119, I looked at the clock on the dash of my car, and it said 1:19. I know it's just a coincidence, I really do know that. But it felt like more than a coincidence at the time. It felt like a declaration: This, at last, is the moment destined for my return. I know it sounds superstitious, which I am not. But my persistent quest for Big Meadow was also part of another quest... A lot has changed in the world since 2010. Things don't feel as safe as they did. A lot has changed in my life, too. I need hope amid the current political climate of hate and fear. Maybe I'm just getting old. I need help believing in all that the Rainbow People stand for. "Lord, help my unbelief."
See how the once-clear path is now obstructed with young branches and fallen trees! No miniature Schnauzer is going to to do six miles on an obstacle course like this....
I found three thumbtacks still stuck into the sides of trees. These were the only visible trace of the Rainbow Family's 2010 gathering here. These tacks surely once held signs to mark the way, or to point out a latrine or a shared-campfire. There were also colorful signs reading "One Love" and "Welcome Home" and "Welcome to Eternal Life." You would never know now that any of this had been here.
This, I think, was the swimming hole all those years ago. Queen Creek is a pretty little brook, and good for wild brook trout, but there are not many places deep enough to swim or bathe. I suspect they had to dam it. It was especially dry that year.
What are we looking for in places like Big Meadow--whether it's our first time here or our last, whether we travel here with the throngs or find it overgrown and silent, whether we stumble here accidentally or seek it out at five attempts? Oh, I don't know. It was just a September journey for me--in the September of my life. The first time I came here, it was still high summer in more sense than one. When I first struck out to find the Rainbows, I was a young minister serving a parish near the Allegheny National Forest. I loved this forest and kept a popular blog about it. My articles were republished in a local travel and tourism magazine. I didn't think of 40 as young back then, but in retrospect I know that it was the summertime of my life. Not to sound maudlin...but my wife was still with me, my little girls still got excited when I came home from work...I was still known as an ecclesiastical rock star. (C'mon, every world is small.) Now? Things are good now, too, but not like they were. Now my daughters are in college. My wife is gone. I've lived for many years in a city far from the forest I love. And my career? Well, I won't say I'm mediocre, but I'm no rock star. When I returned recently to find the great glade where the Rainbows gathered all those years ago, I came as a man in the September of his life. There's still time for a picnic or two. The lawn furniture is still out on the deck. It's not nearly time to batten the hatches. But there's a hint of winter in the air. The trees are tired and ready to rest. Even the goldenrod has begun to fade. I feel old, that's all. Just an old man alone in the woods, looking for something that happened a long time ago.
But we live for hope, do we not? Hope that our lives have meaning hidden in their half-forgotten depths. Hope that our memories contain unseen truths that will someday be revealed. Hope that time itself will be redeemed and proven an illusion. Hope that even after five attempts we might finally find what we're looking for. Hope that the places made sacred by prayer are still out there, though sitting silent for years, still waiting to heal our spirits. We live for hope that the world can be better than it is, and that none of us is destined for sorrow in the end. The Rainbow People are wonderful folks, and I'd love it if they'd come back to my part of the woods. But I doubt they will. Locals were largely hostile to them, and suspicious, and the woods here is dense with disease-ridden ticks. (Though I only found one on myself after trekking through all the weeds.)
