Once we had quietly observed one round of dancing and demonstrated that we had no intention of disrupting or disrespecting the ceremony, everyone around us was incredibly warm and friendly. Shortly after our arrival, Pam introduced us to Paul, the leader of the ceremony. Paul was in his late fifties or early sixties, with long white hair, a seemingly permanent wry expression, and an old white t-shirt tucked into his jeans. He smoked a hand-rolled cigarette and spoke with the laconic attitude of someone who didn’t feel very strongly one way or the other about our presence. He clearly had better things to do than deal with us, so we mostly kept our distance.

The security guy who directed us on where to park the bus was a one-armed Navajo man, a little younger than Paul. He came onto the bus to shake all of our hands, and gently reminded us of some of the rules, clearly wanting to be a good guy.

He said: “If you have any medicine—and you know what I mean by medicine—then just keep it on the down-low. Smoke it away from where anyone else can see you in the camp.”

We assured him that we had absolutely no intention of crashing the ceremony chemically altered.

Most of the other folks we talked to, we met at the kitchen. It was a big, outdoor dining area, where they served watermelon, lemonade, coffee, fried bread and meat and beans. The food was delicious, and obviously freshly prepared—when we walked up the hill overlooking the kitchen, we could see the sheep they had skinned and butchered that day still dangling behind it.

Everyone in the camp was eager to shake hands and say hello to anyone who was nearby, but the kitchen was where a lot of the real community bonding got done. The other place where that happened was at the sweat lodge.