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We walked for quite a ways across the country hills, slowly descending into a valley that was completely over shaded with large Oaks, Manzanita, Pine and Redwoods. A barely running creek wended its way through a sand and stone course, rent in the hard clay California landscape.
We took a path that was narrow at first, running along the higher bank of the creek bed, that paralleled the downward gravitational pull of water, the trail broadening out as we descended into the valley below. We began to run into a few people in Elizabethan costumes, sitting on logs and standing in the cool shade, seemingly from a billowy and feathered age long past. We were in costume too of sorts, hippie clothes, especially Edwardo and Abeo with their Guatemalan brightly colored embroidered shirts, not exactly fitting into the ancient English fashion milieu, but better than conventional California casual shirt and slacks.
As we approached the valley floor with enormous trees of Eucalyptus and Redwoods, the buzz of voices became audible from a becoming evident thronging crowd. It was as if entering into another land of the past, or finding something like Shangri-La, maybe just sort of stumbling across a lost and mysterious village, after a long cross-country journey. Because we did not come through the gate, pay money and enter as official paid customers, we were not stamped with the identity and perspectives of fair goers and tourists, with the mundane eyes of spectators, to a put on theater of sales pitch and craft fair market. There was at least for me, and with the distorting capability of the marijuana, the illusion that we had wandered upon this place, from out the wilderness.
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