I woke up the next day to a miserable scene. The sky was heavy and dark. The shroud of grey that once cowered like a beggar on the edge of the horizon had called for backup. Tropical mayhem had conquered the area during the nighttime hours, making a mockery of the isolated storms that served as the front line. The swirling destruction of the recently land-fallen tropical storm I had witnessed on diner TV monitors just days before had decided to stick together long enough to paint deep Doppler-esque smears of yellow and green across south-central Tennessee.

It was about ten A.M. and Ben was nowhere to be found. I checked my cell phone briefly to see if he had left a message, but it was already dead. Then I noticed one of the top flaps of our Cheez-It box had been ripped from its skeleton, toting a brief message written in splotchy black ink:

Went to find Caleb. Look for us near Pod #6.

Caleb is Ben’s hometown buddy who had also made the trip (separately) to Bonnaroo that year. We had run into him and a few others briefly the night before on our way back from The Mars Volta, though our paths quickly diverged as we were seeking out some other school friends who had come late due to an urge to attend our class’s graduation party.

The rain was falling in steady sheets, trudging across the grounds with dirge-like rhythm. After gobbling down a handful of Cheez-Its (already stale from the moisture- laden air) and a sloppy peanut butter sandwich, I took to the streets. The rain made the numbers on the floating pod balloons much more difficult to see, so I found myself wandering around the grounds for an hour or so before I felt it appropriate to ask someone for directions.

The famed Bonnaroo mushroom fountain - even popular in the torrential rain.

I came upon a group of girls sitting on a wide forest-green tarp at an intersection just passed the entrance to Shakedown Street. They all wore knitted wool hoodies boasting earthy tones, and two of the three of them had long chestnut-colored dreadlocks; the third girl had a short bowl-like haircut like the one I used to rock as a fourth grader. All three of the girls were smiling peacefully, though there was a glimmer of wildness behind their partially closed eyelids. The two girls with dreads were swaying back and forth rather tranquilly, while the girl with the short hair looked like she had fallen asleep, as she was sitting Indian-style, hunched over, head hanging low down near her lap.

These girls looked pretty fucked up.

I approached their tarp with full intention of asking them how to get to Pod #6, but once I saw their blissfully dilapidated grins, I thought that perhaps they might not be the most knowledgeable group on the grounds. Before I could turn the other way, the one in the center—the one with the longer dreadlocks—spoke to me, eyes still 85% closed.

“Where are you looking to go, friend?” she asked quizzically, tickling the edge of her lips with her tongue after each syllable. I must have really looked lost if she could see me through the thin slit her eyelids allowed.

I was a little wary, but mostly intrigued, so I decided to play along. “I’m looking for Pod #6,” I said. The rain was starting to pick up again, and I cringed every time a cool drop landed on the back of my neck. There was substantial runoff dripping from the tree branches swaying above the girls on the tarp, and it cascaded down on them like fountain water being spewed from the mouth of a stone cherub.

The other dread-locked girl to the left spoke next, softly: “Don’t you want to be dry, sir?” Her eyes shot open and bore deep into my own. I furrowed my brow in confusion, and then realized the multicolored objects strewn across the tarp in a fragmented mosaic that surrounded all the three of them.

They were umbrellas. These girls were selling umbrellas. Hand-painted ones, too. They had cleverly bought a bunch of cheap umbrellas and then decided to paint trippy designs all over them by hand. That’s when I realized that the short-haired girl wasn’t sleeping at all. She was painting. She looked up at me and offered a simple smile.

“Ten bucks, dude, take your pick,” she said, very matter-of-factly. Apparently she wasn’t inebriated at all, especially in comparison to the other two, who had started laughing uncontrollably while feeling each other’s cheekbones.

Planet Roo, under the beautiful rainy skies of Bonnaroo.

As luck would have it, I happened to have ten bucks in my wallet, so I chose a royal blue umbrella covered in black and green circles of all different sizes. I handed my $10 bill to the short-haired girl and she nodded in gratitude. ‘Thanks dude, much appreciated.”

“Hey, you wouldn’t know where Pod #6 is, would you?” I asked, following our transaction.

“Oh, sure, it’s right down that street, just past the margarita bar.”

My eyes widened. “There’s a margarita bar?”

She grinned and winked. “Yeah, dude. Isn’t this place the best?” I nodded and thanked her once more before opening my umbrella and setting off down the muddy path. As I left, I heard one of the dread-lock girls shout after me: “Yay! Have fun being dry, man!”

It wasn’t very long before I found the margarita bar, though “bar” is perhaps not the word I would use to describe it, as it was just a soggy piece of plywood propped up on a couple of sawhorses, littered with Solo cups and plastic handles of tequila and a few milk jugs filled with yellowish liquid I later learned was homemade sour mix. Since I had just spent the last of my petty cash on the umbrella I had purchased, the bartender agreed to pour me a couple margaritas in exchange for a handful of cigarettes (I had bought a carton in Virginia for $35, so I had plenty), and also pointed me in the direction of Pod #6, a globular green blob bobbing in the mist a hundred yards or so away from where I stood. I grabbed my makeshift margaritas in haste and jogged over to the Pod, realizing immediately that I had no @#$%ing clue what Caleb’s campsite looked like.

“Yo! Corey!”

I spun on my heels towards the sound, spotting Ben’s long brown hair bouncing in the distance, amidst the mist. My shoes bled into mud as I traipsed towards him, one coming off completely in the process due to a misstep, and my clean white sock became one with the liquid Earth. Ben laughed as I clambered to realign myself with my footwear, and I was miserable until the aroma of bacon and pancakes entered my nose. Hot breakfast food was the one thing missing in my life, and was far more important than dealing with soggy sneakers. I handed him the other margarita I had purchased and he led me back to his friends’ campsite, his compliments on my new umbrella drowning out any discomfort I felt. When asked where I acquired such goods, I gladly recounted my eventful morning of wandering through the grounds and the giggling umbrella vendors and the bartender who had allowed me to barter cigarettes for tequila cocktails and directions.

We sat and ate breakfast meats and Bisquick pancakes for a while, and the rain let up a little bit as a band of the diminishing tropical storm finished passing over us, allowing for a brief moment of clarity. After a hefty brunch, Ben and I traveled back to our site—stopping by the margarita table for another quick round on the way—and planned the rest of our day, which was to include such acts as Rilo Kiley), Iron & Wine, banjo legend Béla Fleck, The Black Crowes, and Phish’s Trey Anastasio. So back to Centeroo we went, enjoying the few glimpses of clear sky presented to us before the heavens opened up once more. We also had plans to meet up with our other friends from school, a few girls who had arrived late the night before. It was during this walk to Centeroo that I realized, despite my effort in changing socks, that my left foot was still completely covered in mud. Little did I know my salvation was waiting just beyond the festival gates.

You see, Crocs—the porous slip-on shoes abundant amongst restaurant kitchen staffs (and made famous by Mario Batali)—had just begun to skyrocket in popularity, and there just happened to be a stand selling the foam footwear within the venue. We obviously had missed the memo, as they were mostly sold out by the time we came upon the little Croc pop-up shop, and the only color available for my size-12 feet was hot pink. I’m fairly secure in my masculinity, and since I felt like I was in a safe place already thanks to the infectious positivity and generosity that emanated from basically everyone I had come upon in the last day or so, I happily purchased the flamingo-tinted shoes with no hesitation, even going as far as to change into them right there on the spot. These shoes were ideal for bare feet, and had ample breathing holes. Plus, I wasn’t bothered by the mud seeping in because they would be so easy to wash. The only problem was that I didn’t know what to do with my regular shoes. I almost walked over to a garbage can before Ben pointed to a giant mass located to the immediate right of the Croc stand. There stood an enormous pile of discarded sneakers, left in haste by those who, like me, wanted nothing more than to rid themselves of the gross incarceration imposed by closed footwear. I was assured that all the sneakers in the pile would be washed and resold as thrift items, so I ceremoniously tossed my beat-up Nikes onto Shoe Mountain, and they landed with a bloated thud, directly on top.

Some of the Bonnaroo natives dressed in their rainy day best.

After a damp hour or so at Ozomatli’s bonkers main stage set, newly liberated by my new shoes (which allowed me to stand directly in the filth that those with less hardy footwear), I decided to do some more shopping. My father wanted a signed T-shirt from his favorite bluegrass band Donna the Buffalo, so I waited in line for a while before realizing that I had misread the program and that they wouldn’t be appearing until the next day. I got my father the shirt anyway, although it was hard to choose because all the merchandise was so top-notch. I also bought a knit blanket printed with multicolored versions of the dancing Grateful Dead bears, and after feeling the soft (dry!) material that lay protected underneath the layer of thick plastic it was contained within, I opted to buy one for myself, only to find that I had just purchased the last one (save for the “floor model,” which had turned a nasty shade of brown due to the weather). The merch attendant told me that I would likely find some similar stores outside Centeroo, and so maybe I would have luck finding another blanket there. I had some time before the time Ben and I had previously set to meet our other friends, so I wandered out of the venue.

Being the main thoroughfare through the camping area immediately outside of Centeroo, Shakedown is always moving. Seen from above, it looks like a clogged artery, with festival-goers’ heads resembling massive amounts of blood cells being pushed through at an urgent yet peaceful pace. It’s fed by several smaller tributaries that stretch out to the farthest reaches of the grounds, like rivers of opposing currents that bleed into one another as they reach the central vein that is Shakedown. I had only been down the street a couple of times by this point, but it was easy to spot, lined with various food, beverage, and souvenir stands. In more recent years, Shakedown’s offerings have diversified to include things like art galleries and stationary party buses, but back in ’05 it was just booze, food, and shops, with random guys selling Jell-O shots or makeshift Bloody Mary (V8 + vodka) out of their ice chests peppered throughout, smiling wildly as they barked at passersby about the deals of the day: “Buy three shots get the fourth for free!” “Bloodies for sale! $4 for a single, $6 for a double!”

As I made my way through, however, I learned of another type of vendor, one that was very commonly found on Shakedown Street.

To be continued...

The Journey Continues Tomorrow ... Stay Tuned.