Last Dance on Buffalo Mountain

It was summer in the mountains and Lucienda Rosalita was listening to Bob Marley sing “Stop that Train” as she took the curved, slow way along the Blue Ridge Parkway. She, Lunchbox and Miss Cali were dabbing live resin as they steamed back to FloydFest Music Festival, where for the third year, the wranglers had been invited to help cover the event. All models pointed to big fun and the last time this party would see this mountain. Since 2002 this gathering of the flesh, backdropped by the splendor of the Appalachian Mountains has proven to be one of the premier music/camping festivals in the known universe. This is FloydFest Heartbeat “22: The Last Dance on Buffalo Mountain.

Welcome back leaf lookers to the land that time forgot. Blackberry thicket, pine, spruce and gherkin littered the ridges up to the summit. According to tradition, the surrounding area was principally a hunting grounds by Indians, including the Canawhay tribe. Six hundred years later the tradition continues. Bring what you got. It’s time for the potluck. When it was all said and done, they left it all up on the mountain and you can’t put the Poligrip back in the tube.

Deer everywhere, all very young and just standing on the side of the road, hanging out with Evan Williams, smoking Parliaments and showing off their tattoos like a pack of Richmond thugs. The best belonged to the doe with her baby daddy’s name written in cursive on the back of her furry neck.

Some places possess a strong spiritual energy. Perhaps significant events occurred there, like battles or religious ceremonies. Maybe the spot was located near a special place like a mountain, cave or craft brewery. A holy place that could maintain the significance for hundreds of years. There would be ghosts and memories that would live forever in that place. The ghosts would know. The trees would know. They saw what you did, you filthy bastard. You can try to wash your mouth out with soap again, but it won’t help. Sometimes the dirt won’t come out.

“This year I’m not going to get completely spun.”

Lunchbox made that statement on Tuesday. Three days later he’d slept for a total of four hours. But what choice did he really have? This was FloydFest and a mosaic patchwork of some of the most fun people on the planet. He’d trained for this his whole life and it was time to show off and let the freak flag unfurl.

They pulled in the Fridane before the festival for the last of the work weekends. They didn’t care what was happening as long as they were able to pull into camp, drop off the metric ton of bullshit and scoot the Oldsmowagon back up to staff camping with Sawmill and his cooler of High Noons.

But the “gentlemen” at the gates were waiting.

Poised like Panamanian border agents, they were both wearing all black fatigue gear and sporting plastic assault rifles. It was immediately obvious that new security protocols had been implemented. Before too long they had Baitibucket knuckle deep in a cavity search and were checking Miss Cali like it was Midnight Express. (ed.note: Not sure hyperbole is still a thing. Please stick with hearsay and conjecture.)  

Lucy, Miss Cali and Four Day Old Brie were looking to slide into camp with their hair on fire and play small dog for a few days. Literally. Baitbucket couldn’t understand the thinking. The wooks are getting in anyway. One might as well put them to work. For all her assorted hustles, Lucy had accumulated six festival bracelets including the Vendor/Volunteer one found outside the Food Lion. Four Day Old Brie had developed a case of Alpha-gal and was struggling to hold down her gelatin. Fortunately during the deluge, the party with Beantown Barbeque and the bottle of tequila kept everyone warm and toasty. At the AirB&B The Dankness woke up to find Lunchbox in her recliner with his hands down his pants. Believe what you want.

Navy Seal Conditioning System. Baitbucket spent Monday setting up the HQ in the rain and the groundscored card table had begun to sag and puddle. At some point in the afternoon he got his foreskin caught in his zipper for the first time since fifth grade and the screams could be heard all the way to Meadows of Dan. The Kitten blew in Tuesday like a cloud of mustard gas and it may well have been his fault the entire camp stayed up Tuesday night. By the time of the Wednesday Sharkbruise? set at the Beer Garden stage he was seen flirting with the girl from Virginia Beach. Lucy screamed, “Don’t do it. That’s why they’re called Chesafreaks!” For God’s sake, crack a book. Later, it was suspected he’d been hit in the head with a hickory nut and failed concussion protocols before waking up next to Rock Castle Creek.

Was it Thursday? Maggie supplied the Chicken of the Woods and Mr. Beautiful cooked it up in buttery deliciousness. Where was Clay with the morels with deer meat? Shawsvegas in summer is the place for wild mushrooms. Miss Cali stopped off to check out The Judy Chops and pick up Stanely the Manly on her way to the Frick Frack Blackjack table. How many wet souls can you get for one fat dreadlock? Oh, you’re not allowed to use dreadlocks as frick frack? Shut the front door. Don’t you know, the big ones carry more memories. Keep your wet souls to your stinky self and remember, butterflies don’t make all the rules.

“Be not a cancer on the Earth.”

Kamp Happiness Girl Power: You can close your eyes if you want Marion, but it’s not going to stop. The X chromosomathon landed on Kamp Happiness like a clear photograph of the mother ship. The Hot Waffle Iron, a Blue Ridge Girl, a Judy Chop and the buskers all showed up to lend a little sound to the HQ side A. Even Old Crow and War Chile dropped some donations into the renegade set plate. I’m sorry sir, do you have the proper lanyard?

VIPness: Is it wise to let the Mexicans run The Hurt’s margarita bar? Like Tamiami Sammy said, “If it doesn’t have okra it’s not gumbo, if it doesn’t have salt it’s not a margarita. Maybe a little Kentucky Ruckus before heading into town for chimichangas. Just wait until Monday because it’s not a secret anymore. And be wary of bartenders from Richmond working the Bloody Mary bar. You know how they be.

Baitbucket could no longer trust his double vision eyes. The nights without sleep were beginning to compound and things were becoming a bit “sporting”. On his way back from the Marcus King shredathon at Hill Holler, he witnessed a woman playing the stand up bass while wiggling around on her back like some kind of python. Things were starting to devolve to the point that not long after, someone placed a can of temporary fluorescent hair color directly beside a can of bear mace. Again, the screams could be heard as far as Meadows of Dan.

You don’t need your ego to cry like a girl with a skinned knee. The festival might not be the apropos place to have a jaw-dropping, eye-opening group revelation but again, there may be no choice in the matter. Say goodbye to the ego, this is full immersion festival therapy. Lucy closed one of her eyes. Things were starting to come at her too fast. Singers and shredders were zipping by at light speed. The Low Water Bridge Band swung in for a few tunes not long before the morning shit birds were poised to chirp under the shine of Venus. Even Adam’s kids in the nook slept quietly while the adults wept and jabbered.

Moist, Verging on Damp: Bfly was basically living under a tarp for the first time since her Rainbow Gathering days. For real. No tent of which to speak. The night before, her tent had rolled down the hill with her in it and ended up as someone else’s groundscore. Her luggage was soaking wet and strewn everywhere. Brie came through with the bright idea to put tarps over the ez ups but the damage had been done. By day three of the wetness Bfly was making grunting noises and had reverted back to the way of her feral ancestors.

Baitbucket had been so impressed with the festival he could no longer continue to use the traditional tropes and literary devices available. Sure, it was a great party but how many different ways were there to describe the beauty of the mountain party? Over the course of twenty years in this location, how many bands had broken through? How many people had fallen in love. How many friendships were founded that would last for life? How many blowjobs? This year couples were poised to get married and grandmothers and uncles were ready to pass on as the wheel keeps turning. Indeed.

Someone put the Kitty to work with Hen and Jason in the motor pool so he already had all the keys. Go with your strengths. Beantown Skippy and Doug Fresh were in charge of signage, thus making it personal with the sign thieves. Lucy had her eyes on the mermaid at site ops but that was pillaged by Sunday by a thief with more gumption. She wanted to sneak into the photo pit and take photographs of Melissa Etheridge but sometime during the week, Lucy lost her new digital camera. Along with the computer she forgot at Bonnoroo this tour was getting expensive.

And then it happened again. He was sleeping in his soaking wet, open air tent covered in what was left of someone else’s dried clothes when he heard the sing-song sound of musicians around the table. It was time to get up from the disco nap and find the staff party. In a blessed act of contrition, Beantown Juicy Fruit offered the handle of grapefruit vodka. Later at Rock the South in Culman, they would learn that in a water bottle it looked identical to Pedialyte. Wookie camouflage to be sure. Just like a Subaru Outback in the 828. It ended up at Camp Opulence and for his part in the altercation, Mr. Beautiful was subsequently lashed to a pine tree and slathered in clover honey. The woodland critters were allowed to lick at him until their bellies were plump.

For all the successful FloydFest themes and titles, there are always a few that don’t make it past the drawing board. Here are some forgotten samples.

Top Ten Rejected FloydFest Themes:

• Ticks Alive!
• Polyamorousity
• Incest, Racism and Syphilis 1875
• Rosie’s Wild Chicken Bus Ride
• Fuzzy Photographs For Days
• Satania
• “I’m good friends with Sam”
• Polkathon 2000
• Boob Sweat
• Hillbilly World of Smells

FloydFest is loaded with the best kinds of degenerates. North Carolina men have big appetites for banjo music and adventure. Like the Girth. He was something different before the girl came around. Now it was all about pillows. Thirty-seven in his tent, not including the body pillow. Never give up on a thug. All it takes is a pretty girl to round off the edges of the typical savage.

Hey now. Be sure to visit the Across the Way Productions website and become one with another dimension of digital whimsy. Come into the light Carol Anne.

At some point Beantown Skippy and Roberto de Nube left the Big Daddy Love show, slipped in behind security and made their way to the wook nook. As usual, driving at unsafe speeds, the Beanman skidded to a stop directly on top of the rose garden which was in full bloom. Lucy stepped up and grinned. “Hey boy, those were my grandmother’s roses. And that’s a real nice pit pass you got there.” “I say we roll him for his shoes. You take the pass,” Miss Cali chimed. Eventually a sacrificial handle of peach moonshine got all the ships pointed in the right direction. From here on out, it would be all business. Be on the lookout for one of the last mountain festivals before the weather turns “south”. Major Malfunktion Music Festival is headed your way.

Check out the gallery from Cloud Bobby Productions. Visit his website, Facebook and Instagram.

Lucy had definitely been wrangled into this Virginia/North Carolina crowd and would keep coming back as long as they would let her. She never figured this was going to last forever but things were getting a mite comfortable. There was a time when she had to lie to come up with a good festival story. When it comes down to brass tacks, the truth is more fun. The FBI and insurance companies haven’t used wook wranglers testimony in court yet. Mind the privacy tapestries. If you don’t see what’s happening, you can’t be an accessory.

“Be like Charlie. Always.”

You have found your way through the maze and into the FloydFest etherweb adventure! Find their website and like their social media channels on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube, Spotify Pressmerch and two tin cans hooked up by kite string. All the things.

Don’t cry sweet Hafiz. Music festivals move all the time. The place is special and so are the people that make it happen. The crew, the bands, artists, freaks and even Benjamin will all follow and something new will be born. And there’s always a possibilities of new blowjobs. Memories, fantastic and fresh just waiting to take hold. Les is probably already there picking out the new spot. It’s good to know people. This was the last dance on Buffalo Mountain. Get ready for the first dance on the new spot and don’t be a wallflower. Le purrr.

Be sure to visit the wook wrangler archives and check out some of our new installations from the world of the Electric Forest. Keep up with the wranglers as we linger in the mountains for another month and then it’s back to Florida and the fall tour of lost souls. We look forward to seeing the mountain people in February, when they get tired of the cold.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Namaste y’all.

Let’s be clear. When you involve the wook wranglers it should come with some expectations. They are going to get there a little early and set up nonstop action sequence of interactive festival fun (full immersion festival therapy). They are also going to stay a little late and clean up their business. Know what you’re getting into and don’t be surprised when the Danger:Swamp sign goes missing. Also look for the Kamp Happiness Pickin’ Tent filled with an eager staff of trained professionals ready to “serve” twenty-four hours a day. Check out Cornucopea Festival for more information on the wrangler commons area installation. That’s an invitation. Don’t be scared.

Epilogue: Two weeks later Lucy was working Alan Jackson VIP in Savannah, Georgia when a bartender suggested she visit Abe’s on Lincoln. “You’ll like it,” she said. “Plenty of wooks there.”

Perfect…