It was about 1972. I was twenty years old, hanging around San Francisco. It was in the aftermath of the 60’s, and perhaps a little hungover from the heyday, but still holding on to some of the ideals. You might say some were just trying to hold on, period!

The era of psychedelics was more or less coming to an end, but in Frisco it lingered on for a while longer. There was this one character by the name of “Gold Finger.” He was covered from head to toe with gold paint, and would hang on the street corner all day, sniffing gold paint from a gold painted handkerchief. I never saw him socialize, he seemed to be content just sitting there posed like "The Thinker,” entranced in some golden euphoria, a universe unto himself.

There were many characters in town, not necessarily as extreme as Gold finger, but you got the impression that, they would only be permitted to live out their eccentricity within the confines of the Bay area. To leave town would be like throwing themselves to the wolves.

It was a time of alternative life styles. "Getting back to the land" was a popular notion. Popular amond hippe fugitives, that is.

I had been in S. F. for about 5 months, busking and crashing around, tiring of the city. Someone told me about some land up in Occidental, just outside of Sebastapol, which is about 60 miles east of S. F. It was called “Wheeler’s Ranch. A guy named Bill Wheeler owned a spread of land up in the mountains. He opened it up to anyone who wanted to squat. It was like a big commune, but without the obligation of that politic.

I think there was about 100 people living up there. There were selfmade little shacks everywhere. No gas, electricity or running water. This was no frills ”back to the land".

I remember the day of my arrival to Wheelers. My friend Jack drove me up in his M.G. sports car. The night before we were tripping on acid, zoomin' around ‘Frisco in the M.G., jetting off the hilltops as the sun came up, listening to Stevie Wonder's talking book. It was fantastic.

Anyway, we drove up to Sebastapol, pulled into the parking lot of a railroad station, trying to figure out "How in the world are we going to find this land in the middle of the mountains, somewhere, when here comes a flatbed truck filled with happy hippies. “Hey! Where is Wheeler’s Ranch?”

It turns out that they lived on Wheeler’s Ranch and were down in town to pick up their weekly load - rice, grains, etc. "What are the odds on that happening".

So I bid farewell to Jack and his psychedelic space ship, which would be the last luxury I would be seeing for a while, squeezed on board the rickety old truck, and headed up the mountain.

We were moving about 15 miles an hour. The old crate seemed to be held together by spit and shoestrings. As we slowly made it toward the top of the mountain, I became euphoric, breathing deep, clean country air, thinking, “This is great!" Back to the land far from the noisy city and the system with its gold painted casualties. This is were it’s at! "I’m finally free!”

Just about this moment we came to the road that led to Wheeler’s Ranch. It was blocked off by cops. “By order of such and such code, authorized by the county of wherever, you are all hereby ordered to vacate this land.” They gave us one day to pack and split. So much for escaping the system.

It turns out the guy who owned the property around the road that led to Wheeler’s, was an affluential affluent in the area and didn’t take kindly to all these scruffy hippies trashing up the scenery. Of course, at the time we couldn’t understand how the guy could be such a drag, when we were so immaculately cool. Anyway, they let us on the land to gather up belongings. That night there was a meeting around a campfire on a hilltop in order to sort out a plan of what was to be done. Many of the people had been there for a long time. They had families and vegetable gardens, chickens, etc. This was their home, they weren’t just kicking around. There must have been about 30 people or so congregated around the fire, wondering what was to be. Bill Wheeler came along and announced that he got with his lawyer and some time had been bought over the matter. So everything was cool for the moment. Someone had suggested that we all join hands and chant, “OM.”

Generally I would try to avoid that “let’s all touch and become one” routine. It seemed too corny, and to be honest, I never had any desire to “become one.” I preferred to become one on my own, without all the high production.

But back on this particular evening, I joined in the “OM” chant just so as to not break up the party. It wasn’t gonna kill me. In fact, I must admit that I copped a little buzz from it. If you can get past the “Kumbaya” sentiment, the drone thing kind of works.

I noticed the girl standing next to me chanting in a Jersey accent. Just testing, she was speaking in a Jersey accent. Her name turned out to be Marlina and she was from Passaic, the same area that I was from. And she knew some of my close friends back in Jersey. In fact, I knew of her because my friend and musical partner, Joey Vernaza had written a sweet song about her called “Dearest Marlina.”

I finally got to meet “dearest Marlina” on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere in the dark of night while copping an “OM” buzz. "What are the odds on that happening"?