High Country Journal: Trampled By Pickles

“It was coming right at me.”

“Massive yet graceful. Unclear as to whether its intent was dangerous or one of mere curiosity. By the time I figured it out it would be too late. It’s yellow pentagon shaped eyes were locked wide and from the corners of its mouth ran a foamy dribble. I remember being very afraid but at the same time strangely calm. If the end was to come in a frenzied slather of pickle juice and blood then so be it. I was ready.”      -high country journal 9/20

Welcome back beautiful people. It’s been a hot minute since we met at the water cooler to catch up on hyperbole and fake news. With the absence of festival gibberish the wranglers have settled into new fusion recipes and trips around Grandfather Mountain. In the party interim many folks have had to fall back on old jobs. Some have had to learn new crafts and others have kept on slingin’ and hustlin’.

In an effort to be caught up in the very vortex of the party season Lucy was beginning to relive old habits and say “heck yes” to every invitation. The weather was still perfect in the Appalachians but the clock was ticking. In the forth quarter of the pandemic folks were trying to slide one more camping trip in before the witch of October showed up. For a few more weeks, the Piedmont would still be where the climate suits your clothes so it was time to make things happen. The following nonsense is a round-up dance card of the recent entanglements in the grassy knolls of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Welcome to the High Country Journal: Trampled By Pickles.

It had already been an interesting summer. Lucy had seen some weird things in her travels but this had been a different version of weird. Or rather the lack of a certain kind of weird. She was missing her extended family during the summer drought and the weekly phone alerts were constant reminders that she was supposed to be mud camping somewhere. Where was the crazy uncle from Massachusetts that all the girls swooned over? Where were the cousins from Michigan and Salem, Columbia and Deland? She was missing the late night cajon solos and wook trap glow sticks. How was she supposed to witness and chronicle the accounts of life around the fire with no scene to follow? There was a palpable guff with the absence of episodic forest gatherings. It had gotten pretty weird.

The last parties she could actually remember were The Everglades Roots Festival, Okeechobee and Brainquility. Florida and Guatemala were still the best places for winter festivals. Delta Lot and a few others towed the line but since then the summer had become a desert void of both live music and outdoor camping venues. No Floozies breakfast, no Greensky lunch and no camping with the Mimosa Sisters. What the absolute hell? Always remember dear reader that the darkest hour is just before dawn. As bizarre as things had gotten Lucy could see signs that the worm was finally beginning to turn.

At last, new opportunities began rearing their sexy heads. Pickle parties, private camp outs and small festivals would be the order of the day for the near future. And why not? Let’s just take it easy. We all know where this goes. Baby steps back into the elevator.

Craig’s Creek

The September tilt began at Eagle Rock Virginia, right on the banks of Craig’s Creek. Thanks go out to the Kamp Happiness Roanoke Mafia Annex for their preparation efforts. Salem is for thugs. Welcome to Microfest 2020. The small event covered a few wooded acres and included everything a solid festival needs, from drum circles to bluegrass jams, fire spinners to drywall spackling chili. Even the warm afternoons turned downtown perfect as participants found their way to the creek to stack rocks and spill cheap beer in the cool water.

Just another gathering of folks who camped next to each other in some earlier time. It was when two fires turned into one. But aren’t they all? Ceptin’ now everyone owned vans or Aerostreams. So fancy. Lucy realized they were van wooks to be sure but they were known on occasion throw down the low country boil and that was hard to argue with.

Family Reunions

She was reminded of growing up and attending large family reunions. From either side of the family they usually included music, food and fun. Memorial Day at Mama Lila’s house on Fort Morgan Beach rivaled them all. Cousins and fireworks, sand dunes and beer. Lucy loved her people and it was something she looked forward to all the time.

As she got older music festivals began to take the place of the family reunion. The parents and the children were already there and new friends showed up all the time. At some point it evolved from one particular festival to all of them. The same thing was happening every time. Family be everywhere and she was ready to camp, dance and sing with all of them, slowly adopted and assimilated over years of festivals and late night human groundscores.

Are you not going to eat that pickle?

“Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.”       -Frida Kahol

The Great American Campout

And then there was that party on the mountain…

Sketchy recollections were all that could be mustered. Most of the banter and “hilarity” had been lost and forgotten in the depths of the nebula. The scattered shards of memory came together to form a hazy patchwork of idiot gibberish laced with curious epiphanies. The epoch that continued in the heavy mountain rain had been long overdue. Firewood sat soaking while beer cups filled back up with diluted PBR. They sang, danced and drank banana moonshine. Sure, they got run off the porch stage after Lucy insisted on “getting to the bottom of things” with someone else’s grease box but these things can be expected when agreeing to this brand of liberal behavior. It all starts in the home. Like pop always said, “Keep your pickle dry and your powder hard”.

The vending wooks at Spat By Kat made a bizarre yet pleasant addition to the frivolity. Their late-night fan popping clinic was a rousing success while their departure by hot air balloon was delayed when it was found that rather than helium, the balloon had been filled with nitrous oxide. At last report, they and several new friends were still camping on the mountain but the size of the balloon had dramatically decreased.

“Buy some stuff.” You didn’t think you were going home with that money did you?”

Visit the Spat By Kat website and check out their social media pages on Instagram and Facebook.

She considered the initial festival where two souls finally meet. The awakening where they find each other in a sea of hippies. They managed, across great odds and the vastness of the universe to find themselves siting next to each other in cheap beach chairs around the fire in some hidden camp. This is the acorn that becomes the oak. At this party new friends were falling out of the oaks like dead cats. Once again, things were happening exponentially. You know how it goes. If you build it they will come.

“Well, it’s either kiss me or kill me, that’s how I see it.”
― Tom Waits

Teepees and Pallets

Lucy was sleeping in the little bed that had been built in the back of the Subaru. High Country camouflage. After two days of rain she was ready for a warm pallet. One built with Grandma’s quilts, afghans and a bevy of big pillows. The best pallets use a feather mattress as their base and are filled with cousins.

What she had here in the small hatchback was similar to a pallet but she needed more space and it was still monsooning. Where was Clay’s Econoline when you needed it? The tent was leaking and the blankets in it were heavy and wet. It was sloppy business and she was close to the breaking point. Finally on Saturday she tried to take up residence in the ladies restroom and had it converted into a comfortable living space before she was ultimately discovered. She could be heard screaming, “I was right in the middle of doing the dishes!” as she was escorted out by park personnel. There were still vans and teepees everywhere she could sneak into. She wondered if it was possible lock the door on a teepee?

“Pickles in the rain. Raining on me”      -Hank Williams

“It’s not my fault you used a nebulous pronoun.”

Never miss a Tuesday show. Lucy was on to Butler, Tennessee and the post party on Watauga Lake. Dominated by pirate ships, Don Julio and leftover festival food it was obvious this think tank of festivarians would be able to solve some, if not all of the world’s problems. All they needed was Bojangles, cheap whiskey and time.

Watauga Lake

With the sad new that Toots Hibbert had passed the crew listened to the new album “Got to Be Tough” as they sailed in circles across the lake. They followed bear cubs that paddled ahead of them. After three days in Butler Lucy could no longer trust her eyes. She’d seen a heron with one foot, a portent of strange things to come. Maybe the prophecy was still unraveling. The marathon of abuse had taken its toll and she was obviously out of practice. The whole affair could be collectively labeled a “stretching exercise” with harder days to come. She’d be ready.

‘When life gives you pickles, make lemonade.”

Trampled by Pickles

Lucy was coming to terms with her current reality. The new “normal”. The pickle was everywhere and she was not going to be able to escape it. Days later, she could still smell its vinegar stink in her hair. From this moment forward she realized that she was going to be working within an entirely new and excitingly different framework. If that’s how it’s going to be? Fine. Sit up. Breathe. Wipe the pickle juice off on your jeans. Climb up out of the flotsam and jetsam and go kill it.

Together.

“Keep your friends close and your dabs closer.”

“Hey Magellan, you’re sailing in circles again. Yes that’s the same deck light. I’m no privateer, but I think that’s the bank just ahead. Maybe you should let me drive.” The post party is where weak brain cells start to run out of your ears and nose. Congratulations. For your effort the dogs left you something in the coach. Impossible to tell if it’s diarrhea or vomit, but it’s in your flip flop. You guys like jokes?

Life is all about change and growth. Use the proton splitter if you need to. Don’t be afraid. Walk into the light Carol Anne.

Visit more wook wranger articles including Covid 19 and the Eradication of Wook Flu.

Epilogue

You’ve made it dear reader into the fourth quarter. More small festivals are popping up everyday and next year’s beasts are constantly adding to their line-ups. The Florida crew is putting together Monster Mash and Floydfest sits out on the horizon like a shimmering star. The mother ship on a collision course with your face.

It’s raining today in the high country. There’s still time to string bracelets and paint signs.

You always knew the party would return and when it did, you would be ready. Ready for everything.