“Clouds of mystery pourin’ confusion on the ground.” --Creedence Clearwater Revival

It was after midday by the time Ben and I made it to the entrance to the festival. The line of cars waddled slowly forward along the dirt road that at first ran parallel to the main road, then gently curved left through a small thicket of trees. Scattered clusters of pedestrians wove colorful tapestries of bandanas and backpacks with their movements, twisting in and out of the spaces between the slow-marching procession of vehicles, tracing the tire tracks with their footsteps. Some were ticketed festival-goers such as ourselves, travelling on foot after being left at the entrance by buses or carpools; some were hopeful ticket-seekers, trying to snag a spare ticket from one of the cars in the long wagon train at a discounted price, seeing this as the last chance to procure an extraneous festival pass at the last minute. Bonnaroo very rarely sells out—unlike the other big festivals that regularly sell upwards of 100,000 tickets in mere minutes—so there are often people trying to buy a leftover ticket at the last minute, going up to each car to see if they can score a ‘miracle’ (that’s what their Sharpie-on-cardboard signs said; a miracle being a festival ticket for around half its listed value).

This shirt shrunk (or I grew) in the 48 hours is took to get to Bonnaroo, so I'm stretching it with a pillow, ca. 2008.

Other on-foot wanderers were selling beer or water or other refreshments, trying to make some last-minute cash before the black hole of marked-up amenities that waited beyond the festival gates took over. They trekked in slow motion against the bursting vein of vehicles inching forward, their assorted deep red or cerulean coolers bumping over pebbles as they fought the tide.

Most of the people on foot were carpoolers such as us, weary from long hours spent in passenger seats, taking this opportunity to stretch their legs and breathe some non-conditioned air for a change. They strolled leisurely alongside their friends’ cars— some well-equipped SUVs, others painfully out-of-place sedans mumbling over gravel and varietal gravel—shooting the shit and cracking open a few beers they had either purchased from the gas station up the street or from one of the various wandering vendors. The pre-festival dust was kicked up by each step they took, not enough to clog the throats of anyone in line, but just enough to skew the perishing sunlight into fragmented waves of grey-beige light that both shaded the eyes of those directly facing the gaseous orb that gives us life.

The slow trek into the festival grounds is always gleefully noisy; every single person in line—whether they are behind the wheel of their carpool or sauntering alongside their compatriots—is visibly and audibly thrilled to be there. Though it never was as slow as it was that first time. Anticipation took its necessary toll before the actual “tollbooths,” eating up any pre-assumptions set before then. Minutes were stretched into days. We needed to see what was happening in front of us to understand how Bonnaroo operated, but it was all a mystery.

It seemed pretty normal...for a while.

The line into the grounds was just as I expected, yet somehow more animated. The dust was far from clear yet it radiated some sort of mental clarity I could not put my finger on, something that could not be captured through mere words or vocabulary. Smiles stretched wide across each face we encountered—those that weren’t obscured by cheap multi-colored bandanas purchased from the nearby Wal-Mart, where everyone stocked up—so wide that they threaten to tear the wearer’s face in twain. Every now and again a random individual or group of Bonnaroovians (yes, that’s what we actually refer ourselves as) was seen scanning their surroundings with palpable bliss and let loose a universally recognized howl of supreme excitement, one that is heard throughout the festival grounds over the course of the entire weekend:

BONNAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Usually, we all respond—as is the custom—in attempted unison, and while the howls of the throes of people responding to the master call all stumble over one another in joyous cacophony, the message itself is clear: God damn, does it feel good to be here.

On this day, when we clamored our first BONNAROOOOOOOOOOOOO!, it was somewhat timid, as we weren’t quite sure what was happening. Eventually as we heard it more and more over the course of the weekend, our late echoes caught up with the rest of the crowd, and we began to feel the essence of this space, this energy, this group of people. By Sunday we were old pros, and we even started a howl or two. It was the thing to do.

Despite the hordes of happy travelers meandering through the tortoise-like parade down the service road that would eventually lead into the grounds, there were a few people there that did not share our vision of collective joy, and wanted to do anything to stop us. These folks were the self-proclaimed “Soldiers of God” from the neighboring towns, hoping to “save” the throngs of festival attendees from eternal damnation. These “soldiers” were all tall white men with blondish crew cuts, and they walked on either side of the line of cars, adorned with long denim jeans, white linen button-down shirts and straw hats, stepping over dirt, grass, and gravel in creepy, robotic unison. They approached each vehicle and pedestrian with unchanging faces punctuated by dead eyes, handing out simply folded pamphlets that were so basic in nature that they looked like they were made using recycled stock images and some Windows 95 ClipArt. One of the men nodded his head and smiled at me without even thinking about blinking as he passed, stretching out a Tinker Toy arm clasping one of the pamphlets in my direction. I love me some light reading, especially when I’m waiting for something wonderful, so I happily took the pamphlet from his hand and peeped a quick “Thanks!” before he turned his head away—still without blinking—and approached the vehicle behind ours.

The front of the pamphlet had a heavily pixelated picture of a tree-lined highway that stretched all the way to the horizon with a somewhat daunting dark grey sky above, branded with the following text in bright yellow font: BONNAROO, YOU, AND THE ROAD AHEAD. Upon first examination, the pamphlet didn’t look like the propaganda it would ultimately turn out to be; it looked rather benign, just something fun to read while waiting in line. Admittedly, it was, but not for the reasons you would think.

A few people come every year to tell us how terrible we are. We don't listen.

I opened the pamphlet with earnest and before I had time to take in the first sentence, I was bombarded with a who’s who of Bible verses and pastor’s quotes, all of which damned basically everything that Bonnaroo stood for, all in that garish canary yellow font. We were warned about all the usual stuff that would get us a one-way ticket to Hell: fornicators, homosexuals, drug users, drinkers, gamblers; and then some things we weren’t expecting at all to appear on the page: witches, sorcerers, false messiahs (???)...It became clear that the small Bible-thumping communities of Coffee County were not too thrilled with Bonnaroo taking over their good Christian town, and since we were all apparently magic-wielding gay drunk Satan-worshipers, they were worried the portal to the Underworld was just going to open up beneath us and swallow us whole, or something.⁴

⁴ In later years, I’ve even seen people like this actually inside the grounds pulling this shit, which means they actually bought tickets, just to make everyone else feel like crap. One year, right outside our campsite, there was a man dressed as Jesus, holding a full-sized cross while empty-eyed children held signs that were plastered with big bold letters spelling out YOU’RE ALL GOING TO HELL, or REPENT, OR FACE ETERNAL DAMNATION. Nobody wants to see some little blond eight-year old girl damning you to the fiery pits of Hell when you’re just trying to have fun, get fucked up and listen to some music for a few days. Talk about a buzz kill.

After giving the pamphlet a quick once-over, I turned to my co-pilot with a sensation of unease mixed with uncontrollable hilarity, and I stuttered a few short jolty chortles before folding it up and stashing it away in one of the side pockets that lined the driver’s side door. Apparently, this was the price to pay for having a good time: someone telling you you’re going to Hell for doing so. If that was the only price (besides the ticket price) that I’d have to pay, I was willing to take my chances.

After about a half-hour or so of rhythmic idling and braking, we came to the tollbooths, which serve as the final entryway into the venue. This is where tickets get scanned, maps and schedules are distributed, and, of course, where everyone’s vehicle gets searched. As we pulled up, we happily obliged the security guard’s request to step out of the vehicle so he could dig through our stuff. I glanced at the large signs posted at each booth, each shouting about prohibited items in giant bold capital letters:

Happy face at camp.

NO FIREWORKS.

Check.

NO BOX VANS.

I wasn’t even sure what that meant.

NO GLASS.

Besides that bottle of Jäger hidden in the spare tire...check.

NO ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES.

Oops.

I hadn’t told Ben that I brought a little bit of weed with me, as well as a bowl (oh, shit, I guess that’s glass too). It was hidden in one of the seats, so they’d have to literally tear the car apart to get to it., and honestly, it was only like a gram; it’s not like I was bringing a pound to divvy up and sell. Then I started to think about the medieval laws most of the Southern states had in terms of marijuana possession, and then I got pretty freaked out. What if they find it? What if they send me to the sheriff, I get found guilty of possession and I’m thrown in state prison for six or seven years? Would they even care that I was still a minor with no priors?

While I was lost in my head during that last part, imagining getting hauled away by the Coffee County sheriff for my tiny nugget of pot, I heard the guard say, “Ok, you’re all set. Have fun guys!” I relaxed, shot him a toothy grin and thanked him, and then got back in the car. We pulled up to the actual booth, got our tickets scanned, and were told to follow the cars into the campground. Yes, that’s right: another line of cars to wait in.

“Good thing he didn’t find this,” I chuckled, pulling out the bowl and the little sandwich bag of weed I had wedged between the upholstery and the stuffing of the driver’s seat.

“What?!” Ben exclaimed. “Shit dude, you shouldn’t have brought that!”

“Oh please, it’s basically nothing,” I said, brushing him off, immediately starting to pack a small bowl for myself. “This will barely last me a day.”

“Well, you could’ve at least told me,” he replied.

I shook my head. “No, it’s better you didn’t know, that way you could act completely natural when we pulled through security.”

He scowled at my deception. Ben isn’t what I would call a straight-edge on any level, especially now. He and I have shared so many drunken, drug-filled nights since our first Bonnaroo that I probably couldn’t even come close to a definite number, even if offering up a ballpark figure. Back then, we would often drink together, sometimes stealing some wine from my dad’s plentiful stash in his basement, keeping our merriment at a low volume as we got drunk off pilfered Riesling in my bedroom.

But he didn’t smoke pot, which came as a huge shock to me, mostly because I didn’t think there was anyone our age who didn’t. Also, the kid looked and dressed like a stereotypical stoner would: beat-up long-sleeve flannels over tattered band shirts picked up at thrift stores, torn jeans, a pair of doodle-covered Chuck Taylors that were most likely made before we were born...plus he had long, greasy hair that housed a few dreadlocks—some adorned with glass beads—and a sloppy goatee smeared across his chin. If that doesn’t scream “STONER!” I don’t know what does.

I found out this little tidbit about my friend one night when he came over to my dad’s house. It must’ve been sometime during the course of our senior year, as that was the first year we actually started hanging out one-on-one outside of school. I think I was still trying to convince him—and probably, myself—that I was cool, so as we watched my beat up VHS copy of Yellow Submarine on my combination TV/VCR, I dug through the secret compartment hidden within one of the drawers of my desk, pulled out an eighth of weed and started packing the bong I kept in the green wastepaper basket in the corner of my room (I lovingly referred to this bong as Rufus, as I think any proper piece of glassware needs a name, and I was somewhat obsessed with singer-songwriter Rufus Wainwright at the time). I filled up the bowl with some fresh nugs, took a hefty hit, cleared it, and handed the bong over to Ian.

“Nah, no thanks man, I don’t smoke.”

At first I laughed, almost choking on the hit as I did so. I shook my head in a gesture that was meant to be translated as Haha, good one dude, before offering it to him again.

“No dude, I’m serious.”

This time I didn’t think it was so funny. I curled my head to the side and gave him a wary sideways glance, unsure if I had heard him incorrectly, twice.

“Seriously?” I asked. “You don’t smoke pot?”

He shook his head, returning my look of skepticism with a wry smile. “No man, I don’t. Not ever since my mom caught me a couple years ago.”

He then told me the story of how his mother had walked in on him and a friend smoking a bowl, and following a brutal talking-to from his parents, decided not to do it again...at least for the time being.

“You know my dad’s asleep...and he really doesn’t care that I smoke,” I tried to reassure him. This was, for all intents and purposes, completely true. My dad wasn’t thrilled that I bought weed and smoked it in his house, but for the most part he didn’t care—and still doesn’t—that I partook in the consumption of marijuana. I even smoked with him a few times around that time, and have many times since. He was the one who actually placed my bong in the green garbage can in the first place. He did so as a joke, but afterwards I thought it was a cute little spot for Rufus, so I chose to make it the bong’s permanent home.

Just monkeying around at camp.

“Nah dude, it’s not that. I know your dad’s chill,” he replied. “I just feel weird about it ever since that shit went down with my mom. I just can’t right now.” I sighed and obliged his declination and put the bong back to my lips. Before I could take another hit, Ben said, “...But I know I will one day, and when that time comes, I want it to be with you.”

This softened me, and I smiled. And as it turns out, he lived up to his word, finally getting stoned with me that following Christmas. But up until that point, he was always kind of weird about it, and he did not seem happy that not only had I driven through the South—where marijuana laws are notoriously strict—with pot in the car, but I had chosen not to tell him about it. He looked upset, and a little betrayed, which made me feel foolish, but I wasn’t going to let his hang-ups mess up my good time, especially since everything had turned out OK.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway, we’re IN baby!” I exclaimed, hoping to turn his mood around. As expected, his face abandoned any element of curmudgeon as it lit up to the realization that we were, in fact, finally inside Bonnaroo.

“I wonder where they’re going to put us?” he wondered aloud, voicing the same exact thought that was crossing my own mind, because we had no idea what lay ahead of us.

The Journey Continues Tomorrow ... Stay Tuned.