The Spring Road: Part 1

What’s that? You don’t like stories of hippies sneaking through the woods? Used car passes and general admission bracelets stapled and taped back together in sloppy fashion? Maybe they never snipped yours off and gave you a free golf cart ride to the festival entrance. Don’t be so sensitive yo. We’re not talking gate crashing. Just colorful solutions to real-life problems. Sometimes the campfire is the best place to find that extra ticket. Maybe you”re just not cut out to be a wrangler after all. Inclusive resorts might just be your cup of tea. After all, who doesn’t enjoy an infinity pool with bar seats right in the water? We sure do. There’s a season for room service and there’s a season for a hostel with a suicide shower. It’s time to get dirty. Welcome to The Spring Road: Part 1.

Wow. A story about missing a festival? Everyone’s got that yarn and it never sounds like fun. No one would really be interested in hearing that tale of woe. But the truth is that the road isn’t always open. Sometimes it shuts down like a bad daycare. On the wrong day It can get downright weird. But that’s part of the delicious whisper that is the wild and uncharted trail. Get ready to sell expensive fishing poles for twenty-five dollars worth of gas. Almost useless in overgrown truck stops like Rawlins, Wyoming.

Even with ample funds, strange things happen on the road. If you have no money be assured your trapeze act isn’t using a net. When one travels with limited funds they set themselves up to be in a venerable position. There’s less margin for error in an environment where hurdles and consequences can quickly mount.

He was having the dream again. Always the same. It was the long road. Mesas off in the distance. Driving through some arid landscape in Utah, outside of Green River and reeking of Indica and Coors. Some sort of police car directly behind. Not sure what faction of the enforcement branch but, to be sure, a redneck with a gun. Muy peligroso. Mix him up with a poor person and an angry judge. See where that gets you. Falkenburg Road Jail. For dabs? Give me a fucking break. And he thought Shrimphead would be the last guy in Florida to go to jail for grass. Nope. It really never ends.

But what’s a citizen to do? It was time to take what could hardly be called a strongbox and head south for the Florida festival season. Lucienda in tow, they would soon be leaving for a shotgun tour of Florida and all the strange fun that comes with March and April.

Baitbucket was getting a mite riled up as things were starting to get funky down south. He’d taken time off work schleping beers and was headed out for a couple months of festivals and fishing. All the things. With all the “winter-mix” fun North Carolina had to offer in February it would serve as a seriously much-needed reprieve. They would soon be heading down the mountain, stars in the sky (Caprisun rising), Chihuahua in the lap, tunes blasting and a car crammed with blankets, guitars and dead cats. It still wasn’t certain whether Big Betty was going to fit but many in the logistics department were cautiously optimistic.

“Money had exchanged hands. Promises were made”. “Yeah it sucks but in this case we’re just going to have take lemons and make mushroom tea.”

The road is a beautiful, fickle bitch. Weird things happen out there and with each trial comes experience and wisdom. There was Longmont, Colorado and the busted Adventurewagon in the Walmart parking lot. No money and a lost Chihuahua. Good times. Sleeping in the front seat of a Nissan Xterra. Good times indeed. Rockygrass in Lyons and Tim O’Brien showing up in the strangest places. Then there was free camping in Green River, Utah and the “wrath of God” sandstorm that would show up everyday around three and blow the ez-up into the ionosphere. It’s to be expected and it comes with the territory.

The Night the Oldsmowagon Died

B.B left the bar at a reasonable time. They could now stay open until 11:00 pm in North Carolina (Thanks Roy) so it seemed everyone was being responsible all the time. The Oldsmowagon came to rest in the parking lot of Mountaineer Hall at Appalachian State. Exactly one week later he was still in Boone. Sitting in the darkened office, listening to “A Song Before I go” on headphones. Crosby, Stills and Nash. A boy band of superstars. He would need good music to stay sane today. And more whiskey. Yesterday’s George Dickle was already in the trash. Once again he hadn’t heard from the mechanic in two days. Last they spoke, the team was confounded by the Oldsmowagon’s security system which when the juice went out, apparently engaged like some kind of advanced computer weapon.

He put on Captured Angel by Dan Folgergerg. This would all prove to be an important ongoing meditation. Trying not to be apprehensive or bummed-out by not being at the Maddox Ranch Medicine Show. They had passed around the narcotics collection plate and they were making bets on when he would get there. The good money was on suicide. The news kept coming out of the show. Bonnie Blue and Firewater Tent Revival had slayed it. Chase Holiday had been seen running naked through the field screaming, “viva revolucion!” and Tim proposed to Sunnie Ray. Plenty of action for a crowd that was more than ready for it.

Friday Part II

Exactly a week later he was still sitting on pre-launch, plied with liquor, painting rocks and clothespins in the slim chance that he might ever make it back to a festival. The Oldsmowagon had been towed from Bill’s Automotive to Team Chevrolette and had sat there for a few more days. Finally, thankfully and fifteen hundred dollars later they would be on the road again. That being said, after this expense the coffers would surely dry. It would make more sense to stick around, work for two weeks and gather a little coin for the adventure, but…

La Rosanostra, Moonshine and the rest of the fam were already at Suwannee for Spring Fling. They would be there dancing their tits off in Live Oak. Once again the strategy was the same. Immediately head south and figure out the rest later.

The Road.

He was excited to get on the road. If needed they would sleep in the car at a rest stop. They would sustain themselves on bad food and cheap beer. The way God meant for it to be. Lucy might have to survive completely on the cheese-laden foil burger wrappers that would litter the vehicle. As he got closer to the park, the tinglies started and he was forced to engage the cruise control so he wouldn’t push too hard and fast.

Suwnnee Spring Fling: Mind if we dance with your podmates?

Kuddos to Beth Judy and Spirit of Suwannee Music Park for hosting the much-needed festival with safe and responsible fun. There’s nothing better than solo Keller on a Saturday night. Not sure where I’m supposed to be. Mind if I share your pod? I brought treats.

Consequences shmonsequences.

In their absence it seemed everyone in Florida had acquired PTSD and a medical marijuana card. Legal coffee and a dab? Well now. He wondered what the Suwannee County sheriffs would be doing now that they didn’t need to hassle kids smoking a little reefer around the fire. The days of bail money, magistrates and missed shows would hopefully be coming to an end.

Onward and upward. Next they were headed to Fool’s Engagement with Spacebug and Mott Guilty and then to Suwannee Rising with a group of involuntary nudists. Things were getting real, real fast. There was funk on the horizon. Enough to go around. For now the car was still running and one can’t ask for more than that. The wranglers are thrilled to have been picked up by FloydFest and Mountain Music Festival. Check us out for tickets and information and keep up if you can. Thanks for continuing to enjoy the iconic style and bold sophistication of the incomparable wook wranglers.

“You bought a ticket, you might as well see the show.” -C.W. Roanoke Mafia

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