I was sulking about in a lull between girlfriends, when a friend called me about going to some neo hippy communion in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I won’t share the specific details out of respect to the people who go there, but suffice to say the big deal was dragging a huge slab of stone from one craggy spot to a more sedate spot a mile or so away. The rest of the weekend was shared showers, nakedness, drugs, and for the most part generally nice people converging together.
My friend, let’s call her Toni, a woman I had gone to high school with and occasionally did other adult things with, drove us onto the property late on Friday and circled around the campgrounds in that late night, spooky headlight way until we found a bare, though sloped, spot to set up. The tent staking and gear unloading went quickly. We headed to the showers. There was a green, wooden fence of sorts around the whole thing, then a concrete wall with four shower spigots on each side, about three feet apart, and nothing but a big open space to get wet in. There was, of course, no roof.
We undressed and took to the shower, some mild, intimate washing ensuing. Shortly two other people arrived. One was Toni’s recent ex-boyfriend and the other was his attractive new girlfriend. Awkward hellos and introductions followed, and then they were both naked with us. I wondered why they simply didn’t use the showers on the other side of the wall. I didn’t know if we were about to have a sloppy orgy or a naked, heated, post-romance confrontation. In the end, neither occurred. Everyone washed, left, and went back to each others tents to fuck. C’est la vie, right?
The next day we walked to the central village, of sorts, and mingled with an assortment of appealing, happy, open travelers. The smells of sweet, salty bacon and maple syrup wafted among us. More children than I expected ran around the open field by the main pavilion, where picnic tables stood row after row.
Later we went down to the river where people swam and stood in chatty circles in the early fall water. Everyone, including the children, were naked. So off came our clothes again and into the cold water we went, and I shivered for the next hour trying to engage in small talk. One woman, in her fifties, complained that tax laws were going to put her crystals and energy creams shop out of business. Another, a man in his sixties with a ponytail touching his ass, said it was getting harder and harder to get to this event, what with his arthritic hands and heroin addiction. One of the young boys swimming about fifty feet out, in the deeper part, clamored for help and his father came running from shore, swam out, and pulled the boy back coughing. It startled all of us and that pretty much ended “hanging out” time.
In the afternoon I went for a walk deep into the property, campsites spread out along barely drive-able dirt roads, at least a mile back. I talked to a few people, got stories about the property owner, a monk they said, a facilitator of this spiritual gathering. I never got the extent of it and sort of marveled at how a community could spring up over the course of a few days with such singular focus and, to my surprise, lack of tension or conflict.
I am likely romanticizing this in my memory, or was just naive to all the more subtle interactions that went on. But a good mix of young and old were present, and warm hugs occurred with both authenticity and frequency, and fires birthed dancing, gray smoke in large numbers, and crisp laughter was constant.
I eventually came to a clearing at the river’s edge, where two men and a woman stood around a scorching, high fire. A mound covered in what looked like horse blankets was behind them, close to the riverbank.
“What’s going on,” I asked in the coolest way I could.
“Sweat lodge,” one of the dudes said. “Interested? You should come by later. We have a shaman coming in.”
The three of them were younger than me, maybe their early thirties. The girl gave me a seductive eye, or so my ego convinced me. It would happen around six, come on back, they said. I promised I would.
After dinner, I did go back. The shaman was late, but eventually arrived riding shotgun in a VW bug on its last cylinder. He was not an Indian, as I had expected, but a drugged out looking, long-haired white guy. I got the distinct impression that someone had to go wake him from a bender and drive him out here. He staggered around the fire a few times, put his hand near one of the many large stones resting at the edge of the flames, and said they needed a few more minutes. Those stones had likely been in that fire all day and had to be nearly molten hot. A few more degrees couldn’t make much difference, I thought.
Eventually the shaman was satisfied and motioned to the three from earlier to start putting the stones inside the lodge. They trudged the twenty or so feet with heavy, rusted shovels, those glowing stones almost demonic. The shaman spoke to us.
“Tonight we will enter the sacred sweat lodge. I was first trained in Arizona by native shamans in my early twenties, and then in Colorado in my thirties. We will allow the spirit world to enter us tonight, and I want you to trust in me as we purge together.”
My first thought was that I might actually be in danger. I had read about how some of these sweat lodges had gone bad, people had died, and dip shits who didn’t know what they were doing had allowed people to sweat to death. Despite his kind words, I had the distinct impression that our shaman was one of those dip shits.
After speaking, he stripped off his clothes and made a motion that implied for all of us to do the same. Though I had spent a good deal of time that weekend naked among strangers, at that moment I felt idiotic standing with these fifteen or so strangers around that fire, dusk well advanced, and the shaman’s withered cock a thing you couldn’t turn away from. An attractive young girl stood next to me, and a very overweight man stood on the other side. This is important as you consider how we walked single file behind the shaman to the opening of the sweat lodge and, after he explained to us what to do, we got down on all fours and crawled into the lodge, with the first people going counter-clockwise until the circle was filled. I nudged in with that attractive woman’s ass in my nose, and correspondingly my ass in the fat guy’s face. We were the second, third, and fourth in line, so had to crawl almost entirely around the lodge’s diameter. (Years later, when The Human Centipede came out, I took some morbid pride in kind of knowing what that was like.)
The inside of that sweat lodge was the devil’s womb. The shaman entered and closed the flap, and it was pitch black. The stones glowed slightly, but were already losing their thermonuclear levels of heat. A stifling heat did, however, persist. I can’t say how hot it was, but I’ve been in spa heat rooms, and this was the most oppressive place I had ever been. My pores released sweat in a torrent, getting in my eyes, my mouth, somehow even up my nose. There was nothing to wipe my eyes with, no water to wash out my mouth.
My ass and balls rested in a muddy pool of still cold water. My arms were touching the people next to me, now no longer the hot girl and the fat guy, only two bodies linked by wet skin.
The girl next to me actually muttered, “My pussy is full of mud.” I will never forget it.
We sat there in silence, one of those long silences that grows in intensity as it unbearably continues. My mind raced: what the fuck is going on; what are we supposed to be doing; how long is this supposed to last; why isn’t this goddamn shaman saying something. I realized I had asked no questions to prep myself, simply lumbered in from my suburban stupor into what I thought would be a harmless experience. I began to obsess that I might actually die here. The heat stifled, the sweat burned, the three foot ceiling squeezed. The screams in my head were on the verge of becoming actual, vocal rants.
The shaman spoke.
“I once was failing at life. It is through the sweat lodge, hundreds of hours, that I came to understand my fragility and failings. It is here that we come to understand ourselves; it is this place that is the gateway to understand all things. Each of you speak to why you are here, and what you are seeking.”
In the dismal place I was in, the words were a beacon. Near the point of hallucination and cognitive gibberish, the shaman earned the respect that wise men earn when they speak wisely. At once I felt myself transported to a place beyond space, and I reached an epiphany that this was what the sweat lodge was meant to do: to make the universe a clear, perfect pearl. I saw atoms split apart and reveal in its atomic explosion a glowing, accepting love. My body disappeared.
Then, honest to god, something bit me in the balls. I snapped back. One of the others was speaking about having split up with his girlfriend and was kind of searching for answers. In the darkness it was impossible to tell who it was or how many others there were to go before I had to say something. Panic rose up. I had nothing to say. The misery tightened again.
Other people spoke. A girl’s voice talked about her sexual addiction. An older man’s voice talked about how amazing his life was, how his children were successful, and how his wife supported him, yet after twenty years of alcoholism and abuse, and his recent sobriety, he still felt guilt. Then the hot girl next to me spoke; I could tell because I felt her breath on my arm. It came as staggered puff waves with a slight wetness.
“My mom died last week,” she said amid loud sniffles. “I’m struggling.”
It struck me that this sweat lodge was the equivalent of one of those palm reading places, the big sign of the red hand out front. Their only customers were people in distress, naked and vulnerable enough to grasp at fraudulent hope-peddlers. “Oh, I see a dark force in your life, someone has put a negative spirit on you,” they would say, and recommend you put a crystal under your pillow and come back in a few days with a more generous offering to see how this could be cleansed. So there I sat, in the company of forlorn souls, the types of people who hope that mystical powers offer redemption.
As my time to speak rushed toward me, I questioned why I was really here. Sure, I told myself, it was a lark, a bucket list thing to say I had “done a sweat lodge”. But why was I HERE? What had led to this weekend, with this friend, and now in this sweat lodge? Life was not some series of random events, was it? There were reasons for things?
The girl finished. There were no eyes, essentially, to bore down on me. I let the pause linger too long though, and it became a “thing”: the awkward silence fed on itself. I needed to say something, but my mind was a wreck. The misery and now the existential questioning of “what the fuck am I doing with my life?” turned me to stone.
“I no longer live with my kids,” I blurted, “and can’t see them as much as I want to. I am struggling at being a father. I came here hoping to find some answers at how to be a better man.”
Like most things in life, this was both lies and truth. The things I said about my current situation were true, though I had not thought of it much that weekend. My reasons for being in that sweat lodge were not related. I felt a fraud. I spoke solemn words, truly dredged up from a sincere place, but offered them simply because the moment required those kinds of words. These were the things I said to myself.
“And,” I said quietly, “I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”
“Make way,” the shaman said. He did not hesitate. Dim moonlight rushed in when he threw back the flap. I leaned forward on all fours, both embarrassed that I had to quit and ecstatic that I was getting the fuck out of there.
“Sorry, but I have to take a knee too,” another man said behind me.
I was overjoyed, redeemed. This entire thing was a joke, some self-induced misery in the name of knowing. But the two of us, rational men, figured out its true nature. I crawled toward the flap, fully aware of the ass to face interactions that ensued, and then was outside, the cool air on my sweat-drenched body. The other man, about my same age but a little pudgier and hairier, appeared behind me. We both stood, naked and stinking of smoke and dirt.
“That sucked,” he said and walked off, stopping quickly to pick up his clothes and wander off naked toward his tent. I did the same. It was a fifteen minute walk at least, and not once did I care when I passed others, my cock and balls swinging with mighty indifference. I was uplifted, with no idea why or interest in knowing.
When I got back to the tent, Toni eyed me from her chair, glass of wine in hand.
“How was it,” she asked.
“Bullshit. I need a shower.”
The next day was the big event, the dragging of the massive stone slab from the quarry to its new, sacred spot where a dozen or more other stones had been erected in a kind of Stonehenge way. Long lines of people on ropes, like Egyptian slaves laboring to erect the pyramids, dragged that damn rock for over an hour.
The roller crew rotated out six-inch diameter wood poles under the slab, and the rest of us strained. I cursed in my head, my hands forming blisters on my length of rope. That fucking stone weighed no less than five tons. I ranted internally. I sensed the universe laughing down at me. I swore, begged for the rock to break into pieces so I could be done with it.
The rock slab splintered into three large, if unequal, pieces about a half mile from the end. All of the people around me came to a sudden, and grieving, stop. Murmurs were replace with shouts, which were replaced with screams, as the angst spread on down the line. Tribal leaders gathered and discussed and fretted. Everyone huddled in whatever shade they could find. After an hour of quandary, the leaders called us all together.
“We cannot continue. The stone has never broken before. We feel it is a sign that there should be no rising this year.”
More was said, but I wasn’t really listening. I was already heading back to our tent, convinced that maybe I had bent the will of the gods with my negativity.
On our drive home, Toni and I stopped at a little greasy spoon diner. It was one of those up-in-the-mountains, out-of-the-way places with metal chairs and tables squeezed together in a big, open room. Our waitress was old and surly, the food a comfortable mix of grandma’s kitchen and a homeless shelter’s slop line.
“What did you think,” she asked me. “Did you enjoy it?”
I sipped at burnt coffee and chewed down fatty bacon. “I think I’m the one that broke the stone.”
She didn’t laugh or grimace. She didn’t even squint her eyes. “You know,” she said, “things will get better.”
Back in her truck, we headed home. Her Grateful Dead CDs played and the sloping valleys of the Alleghany Mountains accompanied us. Crossing into Virginia, nature gave way to strip malls and suburban cluster. Toni put her hand on the back of my neck. As I stared out the window, her palm heat pushed me into a fitful slumber.