Finding unexpected commune[ity]

Tearing through the pitch black forest on windy dirt roads with the “Pursuit of Happiness - Extended Steve Aoki Remix” blasting at max volume through the car speakers, I realized we had lost all phone service miles ago with no way to get out of the dense Tennessee woods. 

Neither did that fact bother nor stop us from blindly driving to what was advertised to us as a “hippie festival” or “abundance festival” by Brinslee, our whitewater rafting tour guide, on the last night of our camping trip July 2021 in the Smoky Mountain National Park. 

Brinslee was a part of a small group of young adults who worked as tour guides at the whitewater rafting center over the summer and then moved to the north to work at ski lodges over the winter, moving every six months together to find work. Some of her coworkers had been to these parties before, and her supervisor named Sparkles lived there full-time. 

The four girls – Caterina, Sydney, Amelia and Brinslee – sat shoulder over shoulder, thigh over thigh in the backseat, playfully dipping their heads out the windows yelling along to Kid Cudi – “Feeling lit, feeling right, 2:00 AM, summer night.” I sat shotgun alongside Jake who was the one driving 45 miles per hour twisting confidently around unlit mountain roads. 

I just met most of these people barely two months before while working together at the same restaurant before this camping trip. We met Brinslee five hours prior to getting in the car. And after four days in the wilderness together and 20 minutes of driving quite literally into the unknown, we finally approached a porch light to a modest looking cabin and poured out of the car. 

Complete silence. 

No sign of young adults wearing tie dye shirts. No sign of people smoking weed out of their shared bong that they named something stupid like Donna or Jennifer. No sign of “Casey Jones” playing in the background. 

We began to explore the property, having no idea what to expect while unleashed dogs randomly approached us and then ran mysteriously into the dark woods again. As we walked deeper and deeper into the property, we started to hear the deep rhythm of distant drums and see flickers from an illuminating bonfire. 

The closer we get, the more my curiosity pulls me towards this unknown despite my heart palpitating along to the tribal beat. 

Then the trees opened up, and there it was.

15 or so people ranging from 20 years old to 60 years old encircled the largest bonfire I had ever seen – some seated drumming to improvised beats and melodies, some up and dancing, following the inconsistencies in the lyric-less vocals and unsynced rhythms. 

There were two female dancers wearing nothing but spandex shorts and hip scarfs adorned with shaking gold coins that barely ever stopped dancing the whole night – one of them was Sparkles. She took a break just this once when we first arrived to proudly give us the official tour.

Sparkles lives on the property full time with her partner and dog named Bill Withers in the lofted yurt they built themselves. Her and about ten other people lived on the property. When we asked what they believed in, there was no straight answer. They were brought together by means of their open spirituality and free-living ideology. 

She told us about the property and the people that live as well as spend time there. She explained we were there for an abundance festival, an annual celebration to give thanks to the Earth for providing an abundance of luck, wealth, harvest, love, or anything which is a centuries-old practice for the people that live in the area. 

So no 21-year-olds wearing tie dye shirts, smoking out of their collective bong named Lisa and listening to the Grateful Dead. 

In the first 20 minutes of being there, all of my expectations were proved wrong. I then decided to just sit back and take everything in. Become an anthropologist for a night and one night only. I realized all I could do here is learn from people and their way of life. 

On a last minute camping trip with people I barely knew, I ended up somewhere I never thought I’d be.

A commune.

Scratch that – “community.”

Sparkles corrected us very early on. In the eyes of the state of Tennessee, the group and property was to be called a “community” for legal reasons I didn’t quite understand. 

After the tour of the yurt, Sparkles took us back to the drums and dancing where she picked up where she left off. I scanned the mini-amphitheater style outdoor space and saw the outdoor communal kitchen and to the left of that what I later found out to be called the “tripping room” which was three wooden walls with mismatched pillows and tapestries on the ground. Inside there were a myriad of easels and paintings including a masterful portrait of Jimi Hendrix that was currently being worked on by a “community” member. 

Out of seemingly nowhere, three men came up behind our group offering up the dixie cups in each of their hands which were filled halfway with red Kool Aid (a moment of panic ensued with the thought of the other time Kool Aid was distributed in a “community”) and one of them innocently asked a one-word question – “Acid?” 

Jake and I quickly declined as we had already made a pact to collect observations as anthropologists for the evening (and he was driving). The other girls didn’t object and shared two dixie cups between the four of them to not be too reckless. 

We split up to different positions around the fire pit, I took a swig of Tennessee moonshine that we picked up at a stand on the side of the road, and that’s just where our night began. 

I danced, held hands with strangers circling the fire, sang random wordless melodies, tried to play the drums, then was interrupted by a “community” member that taught me how to play.

Jake and I plagued the painter in the tripping room with questions and tried to keep a tally of the random dogs that came and went as they pleased (we lost count).

We explored the different yurts and cabins on the property by walking through their unlocked and slightly ajar doors, talking with each unique and distinct character. 

By 3:00 am, we had heard about a cleansing ritual and followed the 50-year-old partners and leaders of the commune back to the private outdoor hot tub. The rules were simple:

- You have to be clean before getting into the tub.
- You cannot wear any clothes in the tub.
- You cannot bring phones or any electronic devices in the tub.
- You must be prepared for whatever may come your way spiritually in the tub.
- You must be non-judgmental of anybody in the tub. 

The leaders confidently stripped down first and got in. Then Brinsley. Then Caterina and Sydney. Then Amelia. I got in after them with the thought process of “everything once” and “being the primary source is better than observing the primary source.” Jake, being the only guy on our trip, was last to join and the most hesitant to do so.

But for an hour in the early morning, the six of us were being cleansed – of what? I don’t remember – and becoming closer with each passing minute. Nothing creepy or sexual happened in the tub which was a concern of mine. It was innocent and purely supposed to be a spiritual experience. 

If it hadn’t started to rain, I’m not sure we would have left the “community.” 

The warm July rain got into our eyes and so did reality. We reluctantly said our goodbyes, got in the car and narrowly escaped the woods. I honestly still don’t know how we were able to navigate our way out. 

We returned back to our campground, silently entered my family’s tent, laid in the dampened pillows and blankets and fell asleep to the pattering of rain on the tarp and with fresh air in our lungs. 

A few short hours later, we woke up, packed the trunk of Jake’s mud-stained car, and started to drive back to Charleston and reality in the rain and fog and silence. 
Amelia and I hiking in the mountains during the camping trip.

I sat shotgun in the collective, mutually-understood speechlessness on my way back to my own reality of that summer. To the reality of the next day being Monday, meaning I commute two hours to work 40 hours at my radio internship until Friday to work 40 more hours at my restaurant job, back to the 7-day work week that drove me to levels of burnout I had never known before. 

But I rode back with a subtle grin on my face despite knowing what was waiting for me after the six-hour road trip was done. The trip as a whole, but especially the spontaneous plot twist that was the “community” left me feeling refreshed, inspired and exhaled a breath of new life into me that helped me to survive the summer and make it into fall. 

That place built some of the closest friendships I have to this day. It gave us a secret, a piece of the world that only we shared. And in one night, one experience, my world was simultaneously becoming larger and smaller by the minute. 

I was learning more and more about this microculture which expanded my world view, but it also felt like each connection I made that night revealed how all of us are unimportant in the grander perception of the world. In the best, most comforting way possible, I realized how small and inconsequential I am on this planet, in this life which is exactly what I needed to recalibrate myself after feeling so lost for so long. 

It is the places and people that put you out of your comfort zone and pluck you out of your routine unexpectedly that can change the course of your life. While Sparkles, the Jimi Hendrix painter, or the naked couple in the hot tub most certainly do not remember this normal night for them from last summer, it created a core memory and priceless effect in my life. 

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