Back in the day, when the
ABATE of Washington Spring Opener was the social event of the season for
bikers, all the various chapters used to stand up at the board meeting and take
on the various responsibilities that had to be accomplished to make it run
smoothly. Auburn Chapter, our home
chapter, was always one of the doers, and this year we had cleanup duty.
The run site in those days
was down the hill by the water intake for the City of Cle Elum in the old
quarry site on the river. To get there
you rode past the Old No. 3 tavern a ways, then took a left on the dirt road
where the road bends to the right. That
led through a pine forest to the edge of the cliff overlooking the quarry site,
now overgrown with doug firs starting to get big, shrubs and grass. A steep downhill led to the floor of the pit,
which covered about 80 acres or so. In
later years, when they filmed the scene in “Northern Exposure” where the guy
drives his Harley off a cliff, it was that cliff they used. My brother-in-law rigged the stunt, and he
used a Honda Shadow as a stand in for the Harley, because the Harley was too
valuable, and besides, it would be sacrilegious, they all agreed.
This is also the spot where
the guy drove his pickup truck into the river because his girlfriend dared him
to and the resultant rescue made the pages of Easyrider magazine.
Usually about 3,000 bikers
would gather at the site for a typical Spring Opener. They would camp all around the center area
where the stage was erected and the vendors would set up, and at night the
smoke from the campfires floated through the trees and crowds of people would
stumble from campfire to campfire trading stories, hail-fellow-well-mets, drugs
and alchohol in mass quantities, until an atmosphere of general craziness
prevailed. Security was known to tie
guys to trees until they came down enough occasionally, babies were made,
weddings and divorces happened, loud rock and roll was played till the wee
small hours. The ABATE folks would take
in about $50,000.00 over the course of the weekend, and spread much of it
around the surrounding communities for things like sani-cans, water trucks and
beer, lots of beer.
Sunday morning dawned like
the aftermath of a battle. Smoke drifted
from the many abandoned campfires and the ground was littered with an
incredible mash of beer cans, cigarette packages and butts - lots of butts, and
just general trash.
People would start stirring
about 10:00 in the morning, and by noon the exodus would be in full swing. The cleanup crew was already planning on
spending another night on site, so we had the luxury of kicking back and
watching everyone else pack and leave.
Then the gleaners began to
arrive. Local folks, mostly, some of who
had attended the party, others who simply waited for the crowds to
disperse. One by one, they would drive
down into the site in their pickups to snatch up the leftover firewood along
with anything anybody left behind.
There’s no lost and found here, only lost and gone forever. By the time they were done there was nothing
left but the smoke and the garbage, and we got to work.
In later years we would get
smart and make a healthy donation to the Boy Scouts Activity fund and invite
them to pick up the garbage and keep all the aluminum cans, but in those days
we did it all ourselves. One crew took
my Chevy pickup and filled the back with garbage cans. Those we would fill with water dipped from
the river in 5 gallon buckets, then drive all around the campsite looking for
abandoned campfires. We would douse and
shovel all of them, some of which had spread in unpredictable directions under
the soil, only to pop up 10 feet away.
The other crew was filling
many garbage bags with trash and collecting all the ones we handed out during
the event. All the while, the crowd was
slowly dispersing, down to a handful of people on the cleanup crew, or just the
ones in no hurry to go back to reality.
Late in the afternoon I saw
what turned out to be a white 1959 Cadillac hearse slowly coming down the steep
entrance road. They pulled up to our
area, and two young country boys got out.
After exchanging the usual pleasantries and introductions, they told us
their story.
They lived in Oregon, on a
commercial rabbit farm with thousands of rabbits grown for food, mostly. A cousin had told them about the Spring
Opener, and they sensed an opportunity to go to a great party and make a little
money at the same time. All they had to
do was take along some rabbits and sell them to the campers for $5 each, and they
would cover the cost of the trip and have some fun, too.
They took us to the back of
the hearse and opened the doors. Where
the casket would have been was a large electric chest freezer, which had been
unplugged for three days at that point.
Inside the freezer was about 300 pounds of dead, skinned, butchered
rabbits, looking pretty slimy by then, but still good. “Help yourself” they said.
“We broke down in Yakima when the wheel fell off the front, and we had
to get a backing plate from somewhere in Toppenish and that cost $100, and now
we gotta cook, eat or toss these rabbits and hope we have enough gas to get
home.” So we had a rabbit fry that
night. The next morning the kids drove
back in the back by the base of the cliff and spilled enough food on the ground
to keep two local coyote packs busy for a week, then tucked their tales between
their legs and headed for home. The
coyotes had a hootenanny, I bet. :-{)}
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