We watched the last of them drift out the door, laughter echoing faintly as the house finally quieted. Another long, lazy party had come and gone in our rambling house just beyond Big Basin State Park, tucked in the Santa Cruz Mountains off Highway 9. We were about 45 minutes from Santa Cruz, living amid the towering Coastal Redwoods—some of the most awe-inspiring trees on earth, found nowhere else but California.

The house was a sprawling 5,000-square-foot haven on eight acres, with a vegetable garden out front, composting toilets, a deep well we had to monitor, propane for heat, and a gas stove that got heavy use. An expansive wooden deck wrapped halfway around the back, perfect for taking in the forest. The place had a post-hippie vibe—half rustic, half utopian.

After everyone had gone, Ron and I settled into the breakfast nook, still buzzing a little, content in the morning’s hush. It was one of those warm Indian summer days. From our perch, we could see the fog slowly lifting off Santa Cruz far below—though up here, we were usually above it all.

It had felt like a true gathering of the tribe. Friends would come and sometimes stay for days—sometimes weeks—drawn in by the rhythm of the place, reluctant to leave.

They’d reached the Santa Cruz mountains coming from Arizona, Colorado, Connecticut, Hawaii, Idaho, Oregon, Texas, Vermont, Washington—even Canada.

We’d crossed paths in ’75, when I was in school and working in Santa Cruz, and Ron was commuting to San Jose. Over the years, they had become our chosen family. That morning, I got up and wandered through the quiet house. For the first time in a long while, it was empty. Everyone had gone home.

Many people found their way to the Santa Cruz area, curious to see what all the buzz was about.

For many of us, it was a time of exploration—of nature, consciousness, and boundaries. LSD was part of that journey. But not everyone made it back. Some got lost in the trip and never fully returned.

We met people with names like Aurora, Bright Star, Clover, Gardenia, Halo, Indigo, Karma, Lotus, Peace, and Rainbow—each as vivid and unconventional as the life they were chasing.

That year, some began following Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh‘s teachings, drawn to his message of spiritual awakening and radical freedom. They wore the flowing orange robes favored by their famously flamboyant guru. Rajneesh had a gift—not just for raising consciousness but for raising serious money.

His inner circle was packed with baby boomers, including more than a few from Hollywood, drawn to his blend of mysticism and magnetism. With his fleet of Rolls-Royces and his gospel of free love, he presided over it with a sly smile, as if he were in on some cosmic joke. And for a time, a lot of people adored him.

I always wondered if he was serious—or just playing.

No one could ever really tell. Rajneesh wore the mask of the trickster, always keeping you guessing.

Why does this odd memory surface now?

First, let me be clear: I never followed Rajneesh or bought into the scene that swirled around him and his band of spiritual pranksters.

That said, he did have a talent for translating Buddhist, Hindu, and Taoist ideas into something a Western audience could grasp. He also drew from Freud, Jung, and Reich, borrowing freely from their psychological playbooks.

He was sharp, funny, often insightful—and deeply critical of every religion except his own.

Most of his followers seemed to understand it was all part theater, part teaching. They knew they could walk away whenever the power dynamics got old.

Still, the Rajneesh movement had a darker undercurrent—unsettling amorality beneath its free-spirited facade. In 1981, the movement shifted its focus to the United States, with Rajneesh moving to a compound in Wasco County, Oregon, later known as Rajneeshpuram.

After all the chaos at the Oregon ranch, Rajneesh ultimately pleaded guilty to immigration fraud and was deported. But even as the scandal unraveled everything around him, many of his followers remained fiercely loyal.

Before the Oregon movement clashed with local residents and state authorities, about 25 followers appeared at our home more often. Ron was growing increasingly close to them, and the nature of that connection left me feeling deeply uneasy.

It was clear—he was hooked.

That is why saying, “I fell down the stairs,” isn’t exactly the truth.