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| The early days of Eneput Day Care Center. |
Mom had inherited a bunch of money and like a good hippy used it all to create a foundation for a day care center and day camp that she called Eneput, which in Yupik means "our house." The place took care of scads of kids, mostly those of single mothers so they could get work in what was then a pretty godforsaken economy up North.
It always needed money. We had nothing. Mom was a true believer. We lived the life of the Last Whole Earth Catalog and Diet for a Small Planet. We raised our own food. We didn't have a car. We got cold and hitchhiked every day. Eneput always needed money. Mom was a fundraising fiend. She was into politics, and she helped write the Alaska Day Care Assistance Act, which subsidized day care for poor people.
But the Dead was a wild idea. Greg Herring was a friend of all the hippies who ran Eneput. Everybody called him Bigfoot. He was bearded and had the hair and persona of the day. He said he got to know the Dead following them around on tour.
He was an original Deadhead. He really did know them.
I didn't care. I was 14. However, one Friday after working all day as a camp counselor at mom's day camp — which had several hundred kids at Fairbanks' AlaskaLand — I found Bigfoot at the house. Not a good sign. Bigfoot always had big ideas. And he had no money. Neither did mom. I rode my bike home the 12 miles from AlaskaLand. I hated hitchhiking. Back then we mostly got picked up by people with trucks and rode in the back. That sucked in the cold.
"So," mom said. "Bigfoot will take us to meet the Grateful Dead."
"Oh?" I said, knowing that he was usually full of malarky. Then she explained. We would travel by plane to Seattle and thumb a ride at Sea-Tac. No big deal. It was 1975. Hitchhiking isn't legal on the freeways until Oregon but we wait at the on-ramps.
"It will be an adventure," mom said.
It was. We bought one-way tickets to Seattle from Fairbanks International, landed in Seattle with no cash. Of course the banks were closed. Mom had a check book and her voter registration card. Nobody took her checks. I had $20 I didn't tell her about until later.
We got a ride immediately from the airport. Some insurance salesman in a rental. He was nice. Loved the Dead story. Then we got stuck at every on-ramp on Interstate 5. One place had a line of us hitchhikers. One group had been there over night. It didn't look good.
We finally took a Greyhound from Olympia to Portland, where Bigfoot knew people at a commune outside town. He used the last of his cash. I was reading "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" and wanted to be on the Nautilus. Anywhere but the side of the road.
The bus station was close to Portland's central park. We walked there found a phone and Bigfoot called. The only rig owned by the commune was a flatbed, and the guys were making a delivery of something or other and wouldn't get back until late. Mom and Bigfoot fell asleep under a tree. I should mention that it's summer. We're warm. In fact, to us it's hot.
Julie, my little sister, had to go to the bathroom. I wouldn't let her use the public restroom alone so I made her use the men's. I stood by the door. People were extra sketchy. As we walked out, an old guy darts in the door followed by a big guy who just looks scary. I hustle Julie out. The scary guy apparently kills the old guy because somebody screams a minute or two later. I guess it was him.
So I go in. Stupid. Old guy's dead, face down. It's my second dead body. I'm looking for the other guy. I see him. Cops arrive. It's a small park. They must have been close. Julie and I move quickly and roust the sleeping pair. Then the flatbed drives up full of hippies. It's like home.
We spend the night. We eat. We were starving. Nobody likes mom's checks. People play all sorts of Dead records. It's like we're on some pilgrimage. They think we're amazing. Mom gets some money from the woman running the place.
We start the next day on the freeway. Three rides later we're in the back of an old pickup. Hippies are driving. They think we're crazy. They take us 800 miles on Highway 1. We had given up on I-5. People ignored us.
We get a series of rides after they dump us off. We get a ride in a Volvo. Seven of us cram in. More hippies. They had just sold their crop of weed but didn't have any money. Had some big debt to pay and were headed back to Yolo County or wherever to grow more. We buy their gas with the money from the commune. We haven't eaten in two days. They take us the rest of the way to Stinson Beach. They had elephant tranquilizer. After that, the ride gets weird.
We finally get to see the Dead. They're rich people. We're lowly poor hippies. Mom and Bigfoot meet with Harry and Donna Godshaux and other members of the band. Jerry is pissed at everybody and is doing a solo show in LA. Julie and I and the Volvo people go down to the restaurant and look into the windows. I had stayed up all night. I couldn't handle another night of sleeping on dirt.
Once the meeting's over, we go see Mountain Girl at Jerry's place. She looks just like my mom. They get along famously. Ken Kesey's son and I are the same age. He says, "Hi." I return the greeting. We kick dirt. Mom and Mountain Girl disappear to get stoned or something. We stay outside the compound, behind the big gate.
We later hitch a ride into San Francisco and stay in some building were a famous recording was made by some band. Bigfoot goes on and on about it. I don't care. I fall asleep on the floor.
Oh I forgot. Mom "found" some guy's wallet with $150. We eat.
Several years later the Dead finally do shows in Anchorage and Fairbanks, likely inspired by the crazy hippies from the 49th state. They give some of the gate to Eneput. If they didn't, they should have.
At the SF airport, nobody still likes mom's check's. Then she goes batshit crazy screaming about her poor kids and this crazy trip to see the Dead and they capitulate in short order. Everybody stares. I think mom has superpowers.
Mom's still crazy. Still the radical. I gave Bigfoot $1,500 later in fall. I never saw him again. If you see him, tell him he owes me money.
I wish I could say I never hitchhiked again, but I'd be lying. I did learn to buy cars after that. I bought three or four for mom before I could legally drive. They were all cool but mechanically suspect.
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