Zen Retreat Snared in Bad Legal Vibes

With a horse named Future, a station wagon sporting a groovy spray-painted design and all-night candle-making sessions at a creekside campfire, Satori Farm Retreat feels like a lost-in-the-’60s resort for dropout baby boomers.

Even its Web site’s endorsement of “celebrating the coalescent brevity of spirituality” and “evermore tending to each other” feels out of place in a more cynical age.

But Steve Conklin, who six years ago had an epiphany that led him to convert his 112-acre property into a back-to-nature haven for lost souls, is nothing if not sincere.

Officials in the rural York County township where he lives, on the other hand, say they are just as sincere in their threat to shut down rock music festivals at the farm, which they see as an unapproved commercial operation that violates zoning, sewage and permit rules.

So far, the township is getting the best of the fight.

Debating the need for a land-development plan or installing a permitted system to handle sewage might not have been what Conklin had in mind back in 1997.

That’s when a tree fell onto his head and arm, landing him in a hospital bed and in a cast for about two weeks. By the time he recovered, he vowed to live his life differently and walked away from his successful pest-control business.

“It was basically, ‘Don’t worry, let that go, surrender.’ And in that, there came an immense calm,” he recalled.

A week into it, his wife packed up and moved out of their six-bedroom home on the property. “My vision wasn’t her vision,” he says without bitterness.

He let his health insurance lapse, allowed his car to be repossessed, and hasn’t had a job since. He stopped using his Social Security number and no longer discloses his age. When the furnace broke down, he chopped wood.

He renamed the place “Satori Farm Retreat,” after a Zen term for awakening, although he says the principles he adopted were taken mostly from the Gospel of St. Matthew. He sold some belongings and began wearing frayed hand-me-downs.

He has since put his faith in serendipity to keep food on the table, the electric bill paid and the mortgage current.

“You have to understand, doubt is the destroyer. But as long as we had faith in it, at the moment when needed, something came through. Every time,” he said.

Part of his change was a devotion to others: He said he has not turned away a single person among a stream of more than 100 people who have sought refuge on the farm 15 miles south of Harrisburg.

Some had drug problems, a few were in trouble with the law, and all were welcome. Guests found using drugs have been asked to leave.

When he learned a Harrisburg organization that helps urban youths experience rural life could not find a place to hold its annual fund-raising concert, Conklin stepped in. He not only told the group, Sandy Hollow Arts and Recreation for the Environment, that it could rent his farm for $1, he said the deal would stand for as long as he owns the property.

The organization’s first fund-raiser there, in May 2002, featured a dozen rock bands, drew about 500 people and raised at least $4,000. Another 300 turned out for a second concert four months later, followed by four other festivals last spring that drew as many as 800 people to hear such bands as Stone Jug, Quagmire Swim Team and Big Meat. Many guests camped on the farm.

But even out in the country, there are neighbors, and Conklin’s began to complain about the noise.

The state police showed up, followed last May by Warrington Township officials, who asked to be shown around. Although they objected to the row of outhouses under construction behind the bandstand, it was the Web site that really drew their attention, said Jim Bradshaw, chairman of the board of supervisors.

The site described a thriving commercial operation, but no permits had been issued and it lacked appropriate zoning, township officials said.

Bradshaw even checked out one of the spring festivals.

“I, myself, was a little amazed at the amount of people that were going in and out of there, for sure. We weren’t talking about two or three people, we’re talking about a lot of people,” he said.

Code enforcement officer Sidney Shuey fired off a cease-and-desist letter, saying that no matter whether Satori Farm Retreat was a bed-and-breakfast, a campground or a club, it violated township ordinances. The township zoning hearing board subsequently upheld the order.

Conklin was slapped with a $622 ticket for the row of five 300-gallon sewage holding tanks. State regulators are seeking details about any charitable solicitation by Satori Farm. Even the state health department is investigating. Its focus: whether the pool was safe for use by the groups of children brought to visit the farm.

Conklin canceled the mid-June Awakenings Festival and halted construction on the privies. The 20-acre festival field is now overgrown with grass and weeds, the tent stowed away in a barn -- at least for the winter.

Conklin wants a county judge to review the zoning decision and argues that many of the activities described on the Web site were exaggerations by his son. In late October, the site was taken down “pending legal resolution/evolution.”

So far, he’s racked up about $7,000 in legal fees. He’s broke and frustrated by the legal system, and he’s disinclined to pay the mounting fines. He says he might prefer jail.

“All I know is, they’re pulling out everything they possibly can to bury us,” Conklin said.

His future is something the old Steve Conklin would have worried about. The new Steve Conklin takes a more philosophical view.

“If we’re meant to be here, we’re here. If not, then the wind blows somewhere else,” he said. “We just want to exist and do what we do, without hurting anybody.”