It’s one of the more unusual sounds in the bird kingdom. Beginning on a low note it gradually rises in pitch and speed, spiraling up and up, note by note until the sound just disappears into the forest air. It’s the sound of a wood faerie’s flute. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush always fills me with longing.

I first became aware of this mysterious and rarely seen little bird on my maiden trip to the Oregon Country Fair in July of 2000. The fair takes place inside this enchanting little forest within a larger property just outside of Veneta in western Oregon. During that fair I camped inside “the eight” (the fair’s main pathway being shaped roughly like the number 8). The eight is smack dab in the middle of the forest and birds abound inside this little slice of Eden.

Like the opening notes of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s classic Wooden Ships or the scent of spring’s first blossoming freesias, the Swainson’s Thrush’s song transports me immediately to a specific place and time in my life: the dappled green pathways of the country fair. It’s morning, hours before the public comes in. Vendors are beginning to open their booths, lines snake back from Liberty Coffee and other places serving the beverage that fuels the fair. In a few hours this pathway will become a human sea but right now it’s so peaceful and quiet. The recycle crew pass by in their rattletrap truck, cleaning up from the previous evening’s revelry. Sleepy eyed people are just waking up, or just going to bed, it’s hard to tell which. A trio of waif like young girls, all flowing hair and skirts, skip by wearing fairy wings and blowing bubbles. A man on stilts dressed like the Mad Hatter waits in line behind me. We are serenaded by an impish looking fellow sporting a bushy salt and pepper beard. He softly strums his banjo for us folks in the coffee line. The whirly copter atop his rainbow baseball cap twirls to the beat. The way the morning light filters down through the trees gives the pathway an underwater quality. I feel as if I’m swimming through a tranquil green pool. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush serves as a soundtrack to this calm before the storm scene, it’s the perfect background music to the fair’s magical, medieval vibe.

So what is the source of my longing? In a world filled with contrived and generic experiences, the Oregon Country Fair is a truly unique event. What began over 50 years ago as a ragtag gathering of hippies has grown over the years into a quirky, let your freak flag fly celebration of artists, musicians, dreamers, fun seekers and visionaries. My annual immersion into this bacchanalian scene is to be given a glimpse into what it’s like to be truly alive and free in a society that values neither freedom nor life. Acceptance and love, things that people are literally dying for, are found in abundance at the fair. For participants and organizers alike the possibilities really are unlimited among the forests and hayfields of the OCF.

By far my most favorite and magical place at the fair is the open air communal showers and sauna known as The Ritz. The walls, floors and benches are all exquisitely wood crafted. Water heated by an enormous wood burning furnace flows continuously through several rows of shower heads. Inhibitions are shedded along with the dust and grime as we all shower together. There’s a large circular fire pit surrounded by wooded steps and benches where people sit to dry off. A crackling blaze is kept going at all times. A small stage stands before the fire pit where acoustic music is performed. Performances are usually done au natural. My favorite gig ever as a musician was on that stage. Me and two close friends played and sang, naked as the day we were born.  The Ritz is an enchanting place whenever you’re there but at night it is transformed. Everything is bathed in a soft orange glow from the fire and subdued lighting. In the showers, steam swirls around all of the beautiful naked bodies making  them appear as if they’re moving in a dream. Everything is warm and peaceful. The snap and pop of the fire, the quiet hum of conversation and the hiss of the showers combine to create a meditative aural soundscape through which this scene is played out. If a return to the womb is possible, The Ritz would be it.

While immersed in the fair, I always feel a bit sad and nostalgic even while in the midst of the festivities. I guess it’s because Monday will eventually come and  I’ll have to say goodbye to all of this until next year. To say that you never want something to end is such a cliche but you know what? If my Bill Murray Groundhog Day moment were to be set at the country fair, then bring it on! I could lie on my back at night in the cool grass of Chela Mela Meadow, watching the stars and listening to the giggles of happy trippers. Then it would be on to The Ritz. Park me underneath a shower head and let the hot water run over me like a baptism. The smokestack from the furnace is painted with a Native American osprey motif. I’d watch the sparks fly from its mouth and become fireflies as they disappear into the Oregon night. I’d awaken each morning not to Sonny and Cher’s I Got You Babe but to the song of the Swainson’s Thrush. Longing.