"Tomorrow Is Another Day"

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

# 6 “Tomorrow Is Another Day”

This was only Friday, in the opening few hours of my three-day stay at Reggae on the river, 2015, and yet I had already peaked, emotionally, I thought, while absorbing Stick Figure from the elevated side-stage, about thirty feet from where the performers were rocking out. Peaked emotionally? LMAO. Not even close.

Though Conner had painted a clear picture with his description of the privileges our pink wristbands gave us, I was unprepared for the overwhelming feeling of appreciation I got, for having landed in this exact spot.

I am here. I can’t believe this is even happening. There’s bound to be someone I know out in the crowd. There! Joe Smith! How awesome is that. That bear hug he gave me on his way into the venue had made me feel that I was in the right place at the right time. I better snap a pic.

I was experiencing many different emotional highs, along with that provided by the music. I had come into this arena with one overall goal in mind, and that was to establish my autonomy, to not be reliant on anyone. So I had formed a plan, one that was simple in the big picture, but extremely detailed when it came to the fine print.

My plan included no alcohol, and nothing but cannabis, as far as other potential enhancements for the mind. My reasoning was that I wanted no surprises. I’m not a boozer to begin with, because it only takes a couple of shots of Jameson, and a short period of time, before I nod happily and stumble away to sleep.

And as far as other substances were concerned, it was enough to see that there were plenty of enthusiastic participants in this area in my immediate circle of friends, to relieve my mind that I needed to be also similarly employed. It’s a tough job and someone has to do it, but not this old hippie.

I am not at Reggae on the River to find my youth again. Thanks, but no thanks. I am quite content to be 62 years old... never thought I would get anywhere near this old to begin with. I do not want to be a kid again. And I’m not trying to impress anyone. If you don’t like my style, then that’s a personal problem-take it to the chaplain. Better still, call someone who gives a f**k.

My plan included the hydration I mentioned in an earlier post, but also I put a great deal of thought into my eating regimen. I wished to avoid heavy meals, preferring to graze throughout the day. I never once got hungry, but I ate nonetheless, so as to keep my metabolism on an even keel.

I thought back to an Easter Sunday outing to AT&T Park a few seasons ago, prior to my being diagnosed as having a mood spectrum disorder, when I was still experiencing severe anxiety when in social situations. The boys and some friends, Annie, and I had taken the Larkspur Ferry over to San Francisco and had landed one stop above where the park was located, simply because we were early and wanted to walk along.

The lads stopped at two different bars along the route and I felt obligated to join them in an early libation, having a shot of Jamie on both occasions. I was not hydrating properly (that means I drank no water) because that would have meant having to fight the crowds in the bathrooms at the stadium.

Let’s take stock, shall we? No water, couple/three shots of Irish whiskey, three times my normal dosage of Lorazepam [anxiety meds], several edibles in the form of cupcakes (guy’s gotta eat, right?), and a couple of Vikes, just to make sure. Sure of what, I’m not sure, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

I did not eat any of the goodness the park had to offer, though I am unclear as to why not. Possibly I was just a tad off my game, and not thinking properly.

I know. Weird.

The net result was that on the ferry on the way back, I got sick. I was sitting there on the Group W Bench one moment, when I suddenly felt nauseous. The boys grasped the concept immediately, and were trying to escort me to the nearest bathroom, when I simply fainted dead away. 

Born to be a drama queen.

I learned something that day, that most people grasp at a much earlier age. I can only allow my mind to dictate so many of the terms, before my body has to step up and assert itself. Fainting in front of all those Giants fans on the ferry was enough to convince me of this fact. So was mixing up such a toxic chemical cocktail. Ach tung, Chucko. 

I ought to keep it simple-just a loaf of sourdough bread, and a hunk of cheese. Nah, I don’t need all that filler inside me. Here’s what’s up: a tuppie of fresh tomatoes, complete with serrated knife; half-dozen peeled boiled eggs [ON ICE]; tuppie with a salt/pepper ensemble; small tuppie with some Spanish rice Annie made; can of salted peanuts; bag of vinegar potato chips; dry salami; gluten-free rice crackers; sliced muenster cheese; a bag of Fritos; tuppie of sliced cucumbers... and a bag of mini-Snickers bars.

I was determined to both hydrate myself with water exclusively, and to eat religiously throughout the festival. I varied from the course only in as much as I included one-and-a-half cups of coffee each morning. With as much planning as I put into my menu, and the fact that I also ate breakfast at the volunteer kitchen, both Saturday morning and Sunday morning, my plan worked beyond my wildest fantasies, and I brought almost nothing home, except for most of the Snickers bars.

“Mr. O’!” The voice rang out over the crowd as I ambled along the row of vendors, heading up to Robbie-Doo’s behind the Beer Garden. I turned automatically towards the voice, and experienced a sensation that by now has become most common. 

Oh s**t, Mabel...I obviously know this guy but have no clue who it is. Throw in a beard and I’m even more clueless than usual. The last time I saw these “kids” they were in middle school. I have changed, sure, because my facial hair is no longer a fiery red color, but they have changed more.

“Matt Cabezut!” he bellowed out and I was on immediate solid ground.

“MattNTosha” I exclaimed, giving him a handshake, a hug, and a loopy grin, pleased as punch to connect with a former student and a friend on social media. I revel in these moments. Honestly, though we exchanged pleasantries, I cannot for the life of me remember what was said.

This was the first of countless encounters I was to have over the next three days, and each and every one of them made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Buddha only knows I might expect that these kids would be looking at me and seeing their worst nightmare in the flesh. “Arrrrrgggggghhh! My middle school language arts teacher. Does this mean we have to diagram sentences again?”

They don’t seem to remember me in that light. Casey explained it to me once. “Pops,” he said, “It’s like you always say, people don’t remember the bad, just the good. When it comes to former teachers, they remember the ones who taught them something. If I can’t remember a teacher, it’s because he or she never taught me anything.”

How cool is that?

I trekked around the entire venue, I returned to camp, I had a bountiful-if somewhat small-meal, and at the appropriate time, returned to my spot at the railing, for the second of my must-see artists, Collie Buddz, otherwise known as Colin Patrick Harper. This entertainer was off-the-charts dynamic, reminding me of Ian Anderson in concert.

Ian Anderson is the force behind Jethro Tull, and with his cape and his flute, and his one-legged stance when playing said flute, was always the electrifying presence in the group. So it was with Collie Buddz, as Harper rocked that bowl, ending up in the crowd on two different occasions. I have the pics.

Collie Buddz was pure, unadulterated fun. To be there was to be uplifted. I reveled in my ability to put myself in a position to take charge of the right side of my brain. It’s been a long time coming.

Epic. One person between me and the performers. Whoa. A strobe light. Nice. Oops. I guess the gal in front of me does not feel the same. She split so fast, it left her man’s head spinning. But now I am on the railing. Time to take some pics.

The saying is, “Tomorrow is another day,” and so the song’s lyrics go. 

Tomorrow is another day, and with it brings Stephen Marley. A great success if ever there were one.

Tomorrow: “Camp Culture”

WaterWorks

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#5 WaterWorks

Originally my plan was to hitch a ride up to French’s Camp on Friday, making sure I arrived before 4:45, the scheduled start of Stick Figure, one of four bands playing over the weekend that I had penciled into my must-see column. 

I changed my mind, however, and decided to go ahead and drive my truck up to Garberville, where I would take the shuttle back to the site of Reggae on the River, 2015, simply because I wanted the flexibility to be able to leave when I decided, and not have to depend on someone else.

When I texted my plan to Casey, he told me he had gotten a parking pass for me in the Tosh Lot, and that he would meet me at the parking lot, just south of French’s Camp. All I had to do was text him when I went through Leggett and he would meet me at the lot shortly thereafter.

“Where’s the Tosh Lot?” I asked him as I tossed my duffle bag and small ice chest into the back of his truck. 

“I think it’s this one,” he responded, “but I could be wrong. I’ll ask this guy at the gate.” He did and the guy didn’t have a clue, one of many times I was to realize that each person working was only a minuscule cog in a huge machine, and knew nothing more than absolutely necessary. We headed back to French’s Camp.

All went according to plan except that in the hustle and bustle, Casey had forgotten to bring the parking sticker to put on the inside of my truck, so we knew we had to make a return visit to the lot. After consulting with the dude who was manning the gate, to make sure that no towing would take place, we went ahead and got me my wristband, along with one for Ian. 

Ian is a dude who had accompanied me from Bell Springs Road, because he was working on-farm, but was getting a ride form a friend back up to Portland. We headed back to the campsite, so that I could haul in my gear and set up my tent.

As I came out, I posed the question of Casey, what did he think? Should I hang on to my wallet and truck keys, burying them in one of my deep cargo pants pockets? Or should I keep them in my tent? I decided to put them in my San Francisco Giants bag, in my tent, which turned out to be the wrong decision a few minutes later, when we went back to put the sticker on the inside of my truck.

We got around that problem because Casey managed to affix the sticker to the outside of the window, by using the windshield wiper blade as a stabilizer. All went for naught, however, a few minutes later when we got back to the main camp.

Deciding once and and for all to make sure my truck was parked in the correct lot, Casey asked at the main entrance, where the Tosh Lot was. 

“I don’t know, but that guy in the motorhome over there was just asking the same question. I told him to ask over there where you get your wristbands,” he said, gesturing toward the area where we had been a few minutes earlier.

“Be right back,” I said, and jogged over to ask the same question. It turned out we were standing about a hundred feet away from possibly the best parking for the venue imaginable. The Tosh Lot was the first parking facility one encountered upon turning right into the French’s Camp site. Unbelievable.

Things were falling into place nicely. We returned to the parking lot where my truck is, for the third time, but the third time is the charm, because now my truck was going to be where it was supposed to be, and it was still at least an hour away from Stick Figure time.

I had missed them at the Emerald Cup last December, simply because there was no schedule of events. The bands played in the order they were supposed to, and it was guess and by golly, as far as exactly when that would be. I missed out. Such was not the case at ROTR.

We were lounging around the camp a while later, at 4:20, acknowledging the moment in the most logical manner, with me building up anticipation for the upcoming musical event. Conner had filled me in on where I could go with my pink wristband, and the most significant spot was backstage, where we were allowed to walk up the steps to the two side-stage areas, which allowed viewers to be on either side of the performers, but at a higher level, so we were looking down on them, from about thirty feet away.

Out over the expansive bowl, people would be congregated in front of the stage to view the artists. I simply could not believe that I did not have to suffer the agony [for me] of being in the middle of all that humanity. I was grateful for my advantageous viewing spot.

A new band began to play as we lounged in the camp, and I listened idly to the music in the distance. I did not recognize the song. A second song began, again not one that I recognized, and someone asked, "Who's playing?"

"Stick Figure, I think,” someone ventured.

WTF? Twenty minutes early? Later days, men...I’m Audi 500. 

I sprang out of my camp-chair and darn near ran the three-football-fields-long route down Rasta Road, to the main performance area, where I made my way back behind the huge stage, and up the steps to the side stage.

And so the moment had arrived, that precise instant of the culmination of all my efforts to be here, standing on this raised platform, and listening to a group which unknowingly had lured me, hook, line and sinker, into the fold.

I was profoundly impacted when the band began to play “The Rocky Road,” the song that effectively started me on my current path, and I could not restrain myself. Though I was bouncing to the beat of the lilting music, dancing in place as enthusiastically as possible, the tears were streaming down my face.

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=the+rocky+road+stick+figure&FORM=VIRE1#view=detail&mid=C633F9F4C2B7F83B009CC633F9F4C2B7F83B009C

I danced, I took pics and I cried. 

“No destination, nowhere to go, 

No obligation, no one to call.

The rocky road is getting long,

The rocky road won’t take me home.”

I remembered coming out of that pit of misery, when Annie was first diagnosed with kidney cancer, had a kidney removed along with a tumor, and had taken a flat in Willits, leaving me alone on the mountain to tend the home fires.

“Situations, they come and go.

No hesitation-you walk out the door.

So what do I do? I got nothing to lose.

I keep it cool around you, you, you.”

I remembered the operation to remove her thyroid, only eight months later, and the second onslaught of tests, appointments, and discomfort she then endured.

“I lie awake-I got my eyes wide open

I listen to the rhythm and the sound of the ocean.

I try to sleep but then I am awoken,

The sound of the train always gives me hope to see you 

To see you, to see you, to see you.”

And finally, I thought about Annie’s decision to give up the little apartment in Willits, and make the transition back here on the mountain. 

Relaxation, it will ease your mind.

Expectations, don’t waste your time. 

So, come on let’s go to the great unknown,

Don’t stay home, stay true, true, true.

And here I am, functioning in a venue that I never thought possible. Great success, if ever there was one.

This venue, this music, these folks around me, all family to one degree or another, all surged together in a wave of emotion to overwhelm me, the first of several such cathartic moments I was to experience over the weekend. I was to encounter a feeling of such comfort and support, as to send me home after the event was finally over, in a most satisfied and comfortable state of mind.

Life can be a rocky road [at times] but it’s the only road we get. So long as it includes moments such as these, I for one can handle it.

Tomorrow: “Tomorrow Is Another Day”

The Transmogrification

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#4: The Transmogrification

On our way back to camp from the outdoor kitchen we had been setting up for the Reggae on the River festival, Casey and I compared notes. He was reasonably upbeat, despite some of the logistical impediments, like not getting a radio. 

“We got a lot done today, that’s for sure. I feel so good about it that I set Lito and Conner free tomorrow, to work on-farm. They were both here last Friday, and they’re coming back to break down camp on Tuesday, so I figured, why not? Did you survive all of that refrigerator moving around?

“A veritable piece of cake. What’s on tap for tomorrow? I know we have to finish the canopy over the volunteer kitchen area and move the dry goods from the truck to the storage area...” 

So surreal to be calmly discussing tomorrow as though I hadn’t been ready to bail out when Lito and Conner had left. Buddha knows I had every intention...Or did I? As funny as it sounds, even to me, I think my brain fart where I could not think of a plausible reason for explaining why I was going home early, is simply the victorious culmination of the battle between my head and my heart. 

Make no mistake-I could have gone after Lito. I had intended to leave; I just didn’t think out the logistics. But I chose to stay. The heart won out over my head after all. As crazy as it sounds, I think I can build on this.

As we approached the camp, I reminded Casey that he was going to escort me to the bathrooms so I would not have to search in the middle of the night. The part of my overall plan in attending on Tuesday and Wednesday, prior to the festival, was to be able to acclimate myself to the venue, and it worked like a charm.

Without delving too heavily into specifics, I have mentioned the heat, the need for hydration and the absolute necessity that I know where all of the port-a-potties were located throughout the site, for obvious reasons. At one point on Friday, my first full day of reggaeing, while pounding the ice water incessantly, I needed to use the facilities five times in a ninety-minute period.

I’m not bragging-just telling it like it is. I was on the move, either tagging along with Casey, jetting back to camp for food, or backstage, jamming to the music and taking photos. One of my main objectives was to function completely independently, so that no one had to adjust his program to deal with my needs. I was most successful in this venture.

I knew where every bank of port-a-potties on-site was: I knew about the ones backstage for the volunteers, and I even knew about the three that were tucked in back of Melody’s trailer, where it dead-ended, and no one hardly ever went. One of the three was locked, indicating privilege for a select few, but the other two were always clean, and available.

The lads really want this to happen. I can’t believe how close I came to bailing out, and I’m still not sure why I didn’t, except that I keep coming back to that right side of my brain, the side that I have effectively stifled the vast majority of my life. 

I still can not draw a cow standing under an oak tree to save my life, but when I listen to the music, three things happen: I sing, I dance and I feel more alive than I ever have, aside from my connection to Annie.

Wednesday dawned cool and beautiful, my “decision” to stay now resonating within me like a chorus of the same horns that would dazzle and delight me [and Casey] throughout the festival. I had turned a corner, without realizing what lay in wait: peace of mind.

I was buoyant and thought back to the previous night, when Casey and I had returned to the empty camp. The others were out partying, that being the nature of the beast. There were ragers on all sides, one of the gatherings featuring your basic, run-of-the-mill chugging contests. We sat around for maybe fifteen minutes at the most, and then crashed.

It was raucous all night long. When asked the next morning if I got any sleep, I replied, “No, but then, I never get any sleep.”

Sleep? What a concept. If I can’t sleep more than four or five hours at home, in the comfort of my own bed, then why would I expect to sleep here? On the other hand, when I do not sleep, I make good use of my time. Buddha knows it was comfortable enough. Hell, I wrote my first three pieces of writing I am going to post when all of this is over, in my head, while listening to those kids who were trying to get drunk in a hurry. 

I remember those days. I used to be a kid.

The day went much easier than Tuesday, with all of the heavy work done, and the knowledge that we were only staying until late afternoon, and then splitting for home. I got to expand my horizons and meet some folks, which was one of the coolest ongoing benefits of the whole enterprise.

We would congregate around in the employees’ lounge, a portable affair which always magically formed in the immediate vicinity of Casey’s bong, and the jar of goodness that was available to all people attending the festival, at all times. 

Next year, we are going to triple the amount of cannabis we bring and distribute to any and all who would like to sample our goodness. It is what ROTR is all about, and when I think of how many times I was offered some mind candy, over the course of the three days I was there, I am flummoxed.

One of HappyDay Farm’s most satisfying moments came when Desmond, a longtime community member of high status, who used to play for many years with some of the very performers who would be present at ROTR 2015, was able to convey to the performers our appreciation.

He did this in the form of delivering the ten half-pint jars that Casey filled with some of our best medicinal cannabis, all labeled with our HDF image, to their destination. Casey swears he heard a shout-out to HappyDay Farms during one of the artist’s sets.

Whew. That was awfully sweet of Nansai to put out that hash. She obviously appreciates having her kitchen set up by dudes who are enthusiastic and into the flow of the festival. Whoa! Who are these two gals? My heavens, they appear to be quite drunk.

I was introduced to Annabryn and Yvonne, both of whom had been imbibing, rather enthusiastically, it would appear. They were about the same age as all of the kids in our crew. Whereas Annabryn seemed merry and reasonably mellow, Yvonne was blazing. What was also readily apparent was that everyone in the group was well-acquainted with these two. We chatted amicably for a short spell.

I mention this simply because a while later, after we had all adjourned to the campsite, the two women appeared, and Yvonne proceeded to plop herself down, smack on top of Mid-Sized David, who was ensconced on the carpetted ground, snoozing on his back.

My goodness. Yvonne would appear to be seeking attention from David. Hard to explain having her sit down on him for any other reason. Hmmmm. David does not appear to have noticed. Possibly this is not the first time?

As if reading my thoughts, (spot-on!) Yvonne twisted around to inform me rather matter-of-factly (or as much so, as one who is drunk can be), 

“I have known David for fifteen years. I just want you to know that.”

“I would certainly never presume to think anything other!”

“Fifteen years! I just want you to know that. I don’t just go around sitting on any guy who comes along.” 

She was sure bent on making sure that I knew she was no ordinary party girl. “Methinks she doth protest too much.”

“Perish the thought!” was all I said, and then remembered suddenly that I needed to get something out of my ice chest. I will tell you that I made good use of that ice chest, any time I felt the need to vacate the premises. I felt that need any time negativity was being displayed within my perception.

As far as I was concerned, that is why ice was invented, so that I could go grab a handful for my hat, any time that I even remotely thought a negative word was about to be heard. Reggae is not about negativity, and I am about reggae. Ergo, I am repulsed by negativity.

Annabryn, was the antithesis of Yvonne, and it took only a short time in her company to note this. Yes, she was imbibing, but the way normal people do, enjoying the iced beverage in the heat, without going into her act. She was comfortable here-nay, she was in her element. 

Not sure why these two gals ended up back here, but Annabryn is nice. Ah, here come de Bull. Checking up on us? Zounds! He is the one who has this tent that’s closest to our chairs, the one with the unique bulge along one side, unexplained, as of yet? I did not know that.

Oh. I get it. Annabryn is Bull’s main squeeze, and they are both a part of our campsite. 

Duh.

This knowledge of the obvious connection between the boisterous Bull, and the low-key, intelligent Annabryn, instantly made me upgrade my opinion of the Bull-way up.

No way does a class act like Annabryn hook up with a dildo. There must be something more to the man than what I have seen so far. I figured as much since Casey speaks highly of him, and...I just remembered, Annie likes both of them too. Got it.

As Casey, Bull and I headed back for one more look-see around the kitchen, Yvonne headed out also, bound for destinations unknown, except that she would not be driving anywhere. As we parted ways at the intersection of Rasta Road and the Highway to the Jungle, and we were about a hundred feet or so away from Yvonne, the Bull let out a mighty bellow.

“Hey Yvonne!”

He waited for optimum effect, until she had turned, and finally hollered out, “Well?”

“I HOPE YOU GET LAID THIS WEEKEND.”

Tomorrow: “WaterWorks”

The Fumble

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

# 3: The Fumble

Upon our return to French’s Camp, with the humongous Wolf cookstove from the Mateel Center, there was much celebration for a job well done. With the help of a couple of dudes already at the center, four of us had been able to muscle the colossal stove up onto the trailer and back to the venue, where it would be used to prepare meals for the artists who were to be performing at 2015‘s version of Reggae on the River.

The hazardous nature of the task, what with the stove weighing in at over 500 pounds, plus the stop at the diner for an unanticipated and unwelcome meal, had me feeling more and more off my game. In attempting to acclimate myself to the venue before the throngs arrived, a nagging question kept thrusting it ugly head out of the foggy depths of my cottage cheese brain:

Why was I doing this again? Annie has told me for the past 25 years that I would hate it, there were too many people, it was too hot, and she wanted nothing to do with it.  

Uh, don’t threaten me with a good time. 

However, that was before I had met and become an ardent admirer of my new best friend, Pandora, who has introduced me to the Stephen Marley station. I am addicted. There is no other artist who could have motivated me do even attempt this, other than Stephen.

Good Buddha. What a circus. It’s a good thing we have our own strongmen, Lito and Mid-Sized David, who had unquestionably been the two main reasons why we were able to accomplish the chore. And oh, my stomach. Why didn’t I just nibble and say I wasn’t hungry? Hmmm. Self-fulfilling prophecy? Digging my own grave? Shooting myself in the foot? Take your pick. I can hang in until tonight, and then I’m going to hitch a ride out of this zoo with Lito. He’ll take pity on an old fart, for sure.

Casey came from out of nowhere, asking as he came up to me, “How are you doing, Pops? Are you keeping hydrated?”

“On it, Brother Man,” showing him my water canteen, which I had carried everywhere, refilling it repeatedly at the pickle barrel-turned-ice-water-dispenser, that was kept habitually stocked with the precious fluid of life, the entire time that folks were on the festival site.

“Great success. So listen, I didn’t mean that you should be one of the crew who went after that beast. How did that go?” He listened as I gave him the brief outline and went on to tell me that I should not feel I had to do stuff that was meant for the younger set. 

Yeah, well, we’ve had this conversation before, young Grasshopper.

“You have to conserve your energy for the Show,” had been the explicit message.

Casey and I had talked most recently only a day or so before, when he had taken me aside and let me know that he-and all the crew-would provide absolutely all the support for me that could possibly be imagined. On the other hand, I was not to feel pressure to attend the festival, and the way he communicated this information left me convinced that he was being straight with me.

I knew that his message was heartfelt and he had assured me that I was free to simply tag along with him on his travels, if that was what was most comfortable for me.

“It’s so hard to get things started because there is so much drama. I was trying to get a radio, so that Nate and I can communicate over the weekend and it’s not happening right now. Sorry you got stuck on that job.”

“All good in the ‘hood,” I said, suddenly having misgivings about my plan to bail out that same night, and return to the mountain with Lito. That old Catholic guilt.  Of course, Lito wasn’t intending to return to the mountain, but would do so if I asked. 

That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Argggggghhhhh. Just when I make up my mind, along comes something to shake it loose again. Well, no challenge there. I have gone back and forth on this so frequently, I feel like a dog who can’t make up his mind whether to be out on the deck, or in the kitchen. In and out. In and out. Stay or not stay. Stay or not stay...

We were kept busy until well after dark, finally wrapping up the last of the cleanup of the storage closets, the maneuvering and repositioning of the entire contents of the outdoor kitchen, and the hookup of the electricity and gas, around nine-thirty.

Nate was holding court beneath the newly erected carport that helped form the huge canopy, beneath which attendees of the festival would be able to enjoy their meals and down-time out of the sun. Nate was the kitchen setup site leader, a man known by most simply as Bull.

I took Bull at face value for those first two days, a big guy with a raspy voice, who obviously relished his role in the process, but who had about three good men’s work he was trying to accomplish. The net result was that he appeared fragmented at times, stymied by either local politics or his own ambition. Hard to say which.

Annie told me that she liked this guy and his wife. From what I can tell, so far, I don’t think he knows if he’s coming or going, but he’s sure breathing hard.

I felt neither affection nor dislike for this blustery guy, but my opinion had been slightly skewed the wrong way earlier, when Bull had failed to deliver  on what could have turned out to be a deal-breaker. We had been standing in line for lunch when he came by, and he gestured that we should follow him.

“No standing in line for my crew,” he said. “Take a seat and I’ll be right back.”

Awesome possum. Anytime I can get service, I’ll take it. Not that I am hungry, but Annie warned me how important it is for me to eat. Otherwise, I’ll keel over like I did on the ferry coming back from AT&T Park that time. 

On the other hand, I will not be ingesting a slate of anxiety-reducing chemicals, including cannabis cookies, alcohol, Lorazapam and Vicodin, as has been known to be my remedy for ensuring I am so anesthetized that I can handle the stress of being in the stadium, amongst ALL those fans. Now all I need is cannabis plus the sessions of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy already notched in my little pea brain.

We traipsed down the bank in the shade behind the kitchen, alongside the trailer-truck refrigerator unit, able to feel the frosty air furiously trying to stay confined in its own refuge, but spilling out anyway into the 106 degree weather, any time Dan the cook had to get something out. 

I never minded the heat, having come equipped with a small ice chest and a bag of ice, fortuitously obtained when Casey and I filled the truck with gas, prior to arriving. Interestingly enough, in grabbing a snack, as decadent as it was, we had each elected some vinegar tater chips, and water. Always water. 

I kept ice cubes in my hat at all times. It accomplished two things: the ice kept me cool, and the fact that the melted water dripped down my face, made it seem as though I were working fiendishly hard. A twofer if ever there was one.

It was here that we had the most profoundly Alice-in-Wonderland conversation with a tourist passing through. Having seen the venue from the highway, he asked if we were attending. We had all of our camping gear, we were animated and we were buying junk food. Here’s your sign.

When informed what it was all about, and finding out that it was reggae music being featured, he waxed on enthusiastically on how much he enjoyed the genre.

“Is Bob Marley gonna be playing,” he asked brightly?

Without skipping a beat, Casey responded, “Only in spirit, but one of his sons, and several grandsons will be there.”

Did he just ask if Bob Marley was going to be playing? [Bob Marley died 34 years ago, in 1981, at the age of 36.]

Now as we waited for Bull to bring us lunch, he didn’t. After an hour, of lounging around doing nothing, not wanting to go back to camp in case the lunch showed up, Bull hustled past, taking no notice of us. Casey raced after him.

Less than five minutes later, lunch in the form of tasty burritos and a salad, was delivered. Better late than never, I suppose, but I was grateful that I was not really hungry or else I would have been annoyed. Actually, throughout the entire gig, I never once allowed myself to get too hungry.

Now, the moment was approaching, we were gathered together, Lito and Conner were poised to spring, and I was formulating the best way to present my case.

Think, old brain, just one more time. Should I just bail without a word? Should I try to explain? “The ship is taking on water, lads, and I need to get back to [Annie] dry-dock.”

I can’t do this...I don’t want to do this...I want out of here.

And just like that, I was watching Lito and Conner making like the wind, and blowing out of there, already thirty feet away, and Casey was saying, “Come on Pops, Let’s find the bathrooms so that you will be able to find them yourself tonight, in case you wake up in the middle of the night.

In case? I wake up a half-dozen times a night to use the facilities. The only reason I would not is if I were dead. But he’s right. This is a crucial mission.

“Great success!” was all I said.

Tomorrow: The Transmogrification

The Wolf

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#2: The Wolf

This being my first Reggae on the River, I was on site two days before the festival was due to kick off, ostensibly for the purpose of putting in enough volunteer time to earn a pass to the entire festival. Being there early was a key component in my plan, because the two days would allow me to acclimate myself to the venue, so that I would not have to do so, with 10,000 of my closest friends hovering. I figured if I knew where I was at all times, then the crowd would not be a factor.

The real reason for the early arrival was to set up the two kitchens which would be supplying quality food for the three thousand volunteers, plus the performers. It was a massive undertaking, one that folks have been trying to perfect for thirty-one years now, and for the most part, it’s based on volunteer help. Therein lies the potential rub, in that there is much postulating for control. 

This person has been organizing the kitchen since ’97; that individual has high status for his connections with performers; and that dude over there has been a part of ROTR since is was still “Electric on the Eel.” And they are all bound and determined to get “their people” whatever it is that is needed.

At the moment in question, though Casey was nowhere to be seen, and Lito, Conner, Mid-Sized-David and I were delegated to go to the Mateel Center to get the Wolf. David is anything but mid-sized, sauntering in at around six-six, and weighing whatever it is that a burly, rugby-playing, six-foot-six dude weighs, but he was dubbed mid-sized by Minnix, on site from Hawaii, and thus it stood.

I am so glad I do not have to think; all I have to do is follow directions. Set up another carport? Easy-peasy. Cart the chairs and tables for the Ambassador Lounge from point A to point B? We’re on it. Move the Wolf? Uh, let me get back to you no that one...

Four of us headed up to the Mateel Center in Redway, with David towing the utility trailer behind him in his pickup. Lito filled me in on the way there, explaining that our mission, since we had chosen to accept it, was to load up the mammoth cast iron cook stove from the kitchen at the center, and bring it back for use on the site.

He said that they had done it last year and that it was tough, but that we were hoping to get some help on the other end from any dudes hanging out at the Mateel. In either case we would have to find a way to get ‘er done.

Unfortunately, when I came face-to-face with the enemy, a behemoth that tipped the scales at a minimum of 500 pounds, I took a second think. Then a third, a fourth...you get the idea. 

Whoever it is that expects us to move this beast, is either delusional, high on the stuff, or unclear on the concept. Take your pick.  This stove looks more like a Sherman tank.  I am functioning, more or less-and more less than more-with only one arm these days, because my dang right shoulder keeps popping out of its socket, or labrum as I have long since come to know it. I am about as helpful as a fish is, in a three-legged race.

Luckily, there were two dudes on hand who were willing to lend us their backs. The five-and-a-half of us manhandled the aircraft carrier onto two coasters we had brought with us, and rolled it carefully out onto the landing platform. We went slowly so as not to accidentally bump a wall, thereby demolishing it.

Because of the position of the curb and the ramp, there was a sizable gap, over which we had to convey the stove. There was no way to maneuver the truck closer to the stove, because to do so was to elevate the rear end higher than it already was, which would necessitate lifting the ship’s anchor even more. We needed something more than what was on hand.

The lads sifted through the detritus alongside one of the buildings, seeking various methods to get the stove from the curb to the trailer. There was a thick piece of plywood that they were contemplating using, but I firmly steered them away, noting that mid-sized-David, who probably weighed at least half of the stove, had bent the plywood to a precipitously hazardous angle.

All I could envision was getting that stove halfway up the ramp, and having the plywood snap, sending the stove over sideways, crushing any unfortunate individuals not quick enough to dodge a speeding stove. 

I wasn’t feeling too nimble right about then. 

Have they lost what little of their minds they have left? The plywood buckles with David on it; how will it ever hold up to the stove? This is ridiculous because there is only one way that six dudes are going to get this bad-boy up on the trailer. 

“Look, we don’t need a ramp. All we have to do is roll the stove up to the bed of the trailer, lift the front end up and slide it onto the bed of the trailer, and then lift the back end and wrestle the whole shebang towards the front of the trailer to better balance it for the ride back to French’s Camp.”

An hour of scratching our heads and two minutes of exertion, and then the lads were ready to chow down. We ended up at Deb’s Diner, where I perused the menu and settled on what I thought was the lightest meal on the menu, a turkey and swiss sandwich on sourdough bread. 

Whereas a gut-bomb was most appealing after having had nothing to eat since the breakfast of potato patties and poached eggs early this morning, I resisted the impulse to order a cheeseburger, or anything fried. I did not want to overload my system before even knowing the layout of the camp; I am not an adventurous fellow.

Unfortunately, what I got was a grilled ham and cheese with a small mountain of French fries. 

WTF? Nice choice: Either I eat what I decidedly did not order, or I assert myself and have them correct it, thereby possibly holing up the progress of the group. To put something as foreign as this into my body, makes me fear the worst. Well, it’s nice to have a choice.

And that choice includes deciding whether I am up to camping at French’s Camp over the weekend to hear the music, or not. Lito goes home tonight and I know he would take pity on his old, confused and doddering dad, and give me a lift home.

“Pass the mustard, please. Who ever heard of eating a grilled ham and cheese without mustard?”

Next: “The Fumble”

Rasta Road

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others. I will attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

Rasta Road

Now, of course, you may not consider 106 degrees to be hot, in which case the first day [for me] of setup was just another day in paradise.  Having spent ten hours outside on the previous day tending to my garden, I did not need the computer forecast to break the news about the heat. I just needed to put ice in my hat, and ice at the top of my list of items for my survival kit.

Hot? This ain’t hot. Heat is SoCal, in October. When Bro Tom popped out into the world in 1958, on October 3rd, it was 114 degrees in the San Gabriel Valley. Nice and warm.

You see, Tuesday and Wednesday were trial days, and if things went well, I would then follow through on my plan of attending my first “Reggae on the River” festival, along the Eel River in Southern Humboldt County, beginning Friday and going through Sunday. 

There was only one artist on the planet able to coax me out of my shell, and into the real world, and that is Stephen Marley, the second son of the late, the great Bob Marley. Stephen is a genius and he rocks my soul. It really isn’t any more complicated than that.

I have found that working while listening to reggae music is a great combination, because the upbeat, lilting nature of the music lends lift to my feet, and I find myself dancing through life, on legs that have become rejuvenated.

Work? As long as I have my headphones plugged in, I am not working, merely listening to my music. If I happen to also be trellising out in the garden, that is purely coincidental.

So why has it taken me thirty-one years to decide to attend the iconic festival? I do not function well in crowds, as is evidenced by my inability to enjoy my favorite pastime on earth, watching San Francisco Giants baseball at AT&T Park. I mean, I have the mental tools to be able to accomplish the feat but I do not enjoy myself.

What is the point of assembling all of my tools and maintaining a high degree of preparedness, to attend a game, only to find that the experience brings no pleasure? Why would I not just stay in the comfort of my living room, and tune in CSNBA, to hear Kruk and Kuip while monitoring the contest on Gameday?

The same has always applied to music. I invested a small fortune in some Beats Headphones, prior to embarking for Ireland in 2011, so I have concert-quality music available at all times. The bottom line is that like watching Kruk and Kuip on the tube, listening to Stephen Marley is a lot more enjoyable under  optimum conditions on my headphones, than joining 9,999 others at a festival.

And if ROTR were only about music, I would be on solid ground. But it’s not-it’s about love, family and community, in any order that you want to place them. There is no simple explanation, so I am going to try complex.

Rasta Road, huh? Wall-to-wall tents, reminding me more of a refugee camp than anything else. I mean, I know it’s how it works, but being in the center of all that humanity, for three days? It’s never going to happen. 

There were two large, open-air kitchens to be set up, one for volunteers, and the Ambassador Lounge, the chill spot for the cool people. Our first task was to move two soda/juice machines, mammoth upright refrigerators which would dispense much appreciated beverages to thirsty revelers, from one location to the other.

The challenging logistics notwithstanding, we accomplished the task, and positioned the ice-boxes as directed. Unfortunately, they had to be flip-flopped, a less-than-enthusiastic crew grumbling that it might have been nice to have had the right location pointed out in the first place.

One hand has no clue what the other hand wants, except that both hands are struggling for dominance. These guys running the show are clueless, each one waiting for the next one to definitively set the stage.

“Hey guys? I hate to say this but we had the soda machines positioned correctly the first time. So can we move them back?” 

We? You got a mouse in your pocket? Oh, you mean us. What a crock. Hey, I’ll put my two days in, like I said I would, but there is no way I am going to come back on Friday. This is just not my scene.

Casey kept things from spiraling out of control through his judicious provision of the vitals: a bong and a jar of high-grade, home-grown goodness. We were thus employed, following the debacle of the musical refrigerators, when head-cook Eric came over, and asked if we were ready to go after the wolf. 

All eyes shifted to six-foot-six David, and seeing that he was right there, all eyes said, “Aye.”

Oh boy. What’s this all about? We get to drive to Redway and get a wolf?

Tomorrow: “The Wolf”