It sure wasn't your typical Utah scene.

Actually, it was reminiscent of one of those low-budget '60s movies: Something like "The Hell's Angels meet Woodstock."Organizers dubbed it: The Boondock Bikers Bash.

And they weren't kidding.

Far removed from the Utah metropolises of Duchesne and Heber City, bikers have been quietly - by biker standards - homesteading among the cow pies for the past three days on an isolated 30-acre pasture a mile west of Fruitland.

They came for a good old-fashioned rock 'n' roll revival to hear some (lmost) legendary bands from the '60s and '70s.

And drink beer.

Upward of 1,000 riders swarmed on the scene from across Utah and the Mountain West by dusk Friday, and it appeared nearly double that number had arrived by late Saturday afternoon - although several came on bikes disguised as motor homes, pickups and rusty Chevys.

Still, the crowd was a big disappointment for organizers, who had hopes of pushing the 8,000-person limit imposed on the event by the Duchesne County Board of Health.

Huge attendance projections had scared local law enforcement officials, who feared a confrontation might develop with so many bikers crammed into such a small space.

But as the bash headed into its third peaceful day Sunday, chances of bikers beating each other's brains out seemed remote.

Indeed, the mood seemed more that of a love-in than a gathering of leather-clad rowdies.

Everybody seemed content just to listen to the music and make an occasional two-wheel

sojourn into neighboring Fruitland or Currant Creek.

And drink more beer.

"We're not here to prove anything to anybody," insisted Jim Baker, one of the organizers of the event, sponsored by a group calling itself American Bikers Aiming Toward Education, which opposes mandatory motorcycle helmet laws.

"But I think the public would be surprised by what they'd see here. I think they'd see that we're no different than any other diverse group of people - cowboys, Mormons or whoever," he said.

In fact, by late Saturday afternoon, Duchesne County Sheriff Clair Poulsen was ready to admit things were going as well as he could have hoped.

"It hasn't been a problem so far. I'm keeping my fingers crossed."

Bikers say he's blown the whole thing out of proportion.

"I think we're out to prove a point," said Jim Froscheiser, the behemoth president of the sponsoring organization's Tooele Chapter.

"Fro," as he's been called since high school days, said a lot of people are scared away by the seemingly outlaw dress and appearance many bikers adopt.

"But everybody has a uniform. Mine is jeans and a T-shirt. If I can't get it done in jeans and a T-shirt it won't get done," he said, stroking his flowing red beard, which would look right in style on the face of a mountain man a century ago.

Bikers might make lousy conformists, but they make even lousier communists.

Inside the compound, capitalism seemed to be flourishing on a small scale as vendors charged $2 for a hamburger and $3 for a meatball sandwich. Pizza Hut was even there, asking $1.50 for a pepperoni slice.

Business could have been better, however, according to vendor Ralph Smith of Fruitland.

Just down the road at the Currant Creek Lodge and Cafe, owner Ron Sweat was faring a little better from the influx of two-wheelers.

"Business has been good so far - maybe double or triple a normal weekend," he said.

But both men agree they'd like to see the bash on a yearly basis to help infuse dollars into the economically depressed Uintah Basin.

Money charged the vendors to set up shop, along with the one-time $20 entry fees charged everyone entering the bash, was earmarked to help fund a motorcycle safety program.

Low attendance could plunge this year's event into the red.

But that didn't stop those who'd ridden out into the boondocks from enjoying journeyman bands like: the New Riders of the Purple Sage; Big Brother & the Holding Company; Canned Heat; Black Oak Arkansas and Spirit.

And drinking even more beer.