I woke early the next morning to the sound of water pounding on glass and metal and nylon all around me, and before I even opened my eyes I knew my dream of our last day at the festival being sunny had been squashed. The rain was coming down harder than ever, and each raindrop that hit the aluminum roof of my car was like a sledgehammer driving searing hot nails covered in habanero juice into my temples and forehead. My mouth had the bare minimum of moisture required within it to lubricate my lips enough to separate them, and I knew right away that I was extremely dehydrated. My first time on ecstasy and I forgot to do the one thing you always have to do while on ecstasy: drink water. The whole time I was rolling I didn’t drink nearly enough water. Everyone knows that’s the number one rule when on ecstasy; even the people who have never done it and those who never plan on doing it ever know this. I had forgotten, and now, I was paying for it.

I reached for the hefty supply of bottled water we kept in the car and downed a good liter or so before I realized I was alone. Ben wasn’t much of an early riser, so I was a little confused. I looked at my watch and wondered if it was still night. No, that would mean I would have gone back in time, I said to myself, mentally smacking myself in the head, and even the act of miming slapping myself in my mind made my head hurt more.  I inspected the car and noticed that my umbrella was missing too. With every new discovery I made, instead of clueing me in to what had actually happened, was making me more and more confused. There was a feeling I couldn’t shake, kind of like when you have something really important to say and then forget it as soon as you’re given the opportunity to finally speak. There was an eerie space in my mind that felt like it should have been filled with some wild dream, but I couldn’t access it for some reason.

One of the names of the three main tents: This, That and The Other. Sound confusing? Yeah, that's not an accident.

I sat in the back of the car for a while and watched the rain fall around me, turning the campground into an oozing, pungent bog that was absorbing every aroma leaking from trash bags and rotting food scraps mixed with the collective body odor of 80,000 people and belching it back into the atmosphere. It was disgusting, and not doing a whole lot to help my severe headache and rising nausea. I forced down some Cheez- Its—which now had more or less formed a damp crumbly mass of orange inside the open bag—and that sort of helped with the nausea, but I was more concerned with the whereabouts of my friend. He hadn’t left a note like he had the day before, and there was no sign of his shoes or phone or wallet or anything, so I had to assume that he had gone back to Caleb’s site. I thought about trying to trudge my way over there, but the rain was relentless and I had no umbrella. I even thought about going back to find the umbrella girls once more, but there was no way they’d be sitting out in a torrential downpour like this. I checked my cell phone, which was of course dead, but regardless I was pleased at discovering that I hadn’t lost it, which was a win in and of itself. I allowed myself to feel good about the small victory. The feeling didn’t last too long though, as the rain just kept falling, stirring up more of the BonnaStench (as I came to call it), and after another hour or so of waiting, the campsite’s streets were starting to seriously flood.

It was around this time that I started getting really pissed that my one friend and traveling companion was OK with continuously abandoning me. Maybe it was the lack of serotonin in my brain, or maybe it was the massive hangover. Maybe it was that I finally realized how sober and alone I was. Either way, I was miffed.

I understood that his other friends were there, but I hadn’t that same luxury. Besides him, I knew virtually no one there, and so when I kept waking up to find him gone, I felt even more alone than I would have if I had actually come to the festival by myself.

Since I’ve travelled alone over the course of the past few years—both internationally and within the confines of the USA—I am, at present, totally fine with the whole “stranger in a strange land” kind of experience. In fact, I find it quite liberating. It’s a great way to explore a new destination without having to worry about anybody else’s needs or schedule or even having to wait for a friend to find a bathroom. It’s invigorating, and these days I try to find at least one moment whenever I am travelling with friends to take advantage of that visceral newness, that stimulating vulnerability one can only feel when they are alone in a place that they are totally unfamiliar with.

The Which Stage, alive and aglow at night, ca. 2007.

My first Bonnaroo was not the sort of place I wanted to experience that feeling. At that point I was inexperienced and I in no way had the sort of worldly outlook on life that I do now. Instead of refreshing and enlightening, I just felt helpless and alone. In my mind, when I had agreed to go on this trip and live this experience, I thought I would be doing so with a dear friend. I thought I would be roaming through a sunny meadow, running from stage to stage with a beer in each hand and my good buddy by my side. Well, the sunny part definitely didn’t happen, and as for my “good buddy,” all I had was soggy Cheez-Its and a wet blanket⁶. But there was nothing I could really do about it, so I did my best to keep positive and take in as much of the Bonnaroo experience as I could on my own.

⁶ I literally had a wet blanket; I had never really understood the meaning behind that expression until experiencing it firsthand, though somewhat ironically, it was one of my only sources of comfort throughout that entire experience.

Aimlessly watching the rain for a few hours and writing some makeshift poetry on the remaining cardboard of the Cheez-It box, I decided getting more sleep was much more useful than sitting around waiting for Ben to come back or the flood to wash me away, whichever happened first (my money was on the latter). My headache had started to fade thanks to the handful of Advil I had chased with what must have been at least a gallon of water. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the rain was lulling me to sleep as it was anyway, so I crashed for a couple more hours, hoping some added rest would help alleviate my mounting despair.

I woke up again around one o’clock and found that Ben had still not returned (go figure). By some miracle, however, the rain had finally stopped, and the sky had turned from murky charcoal to pale grey. I figured that if Ben hadn’t returned by now that he wasn’t going to ever come back, so it was my job to try and find him. I slipped on my Crocs—the pink was already starting to fade a little bit; they now resembled a shade of dirty coral—grabbed my blanket (yes, MY blanket, I had decided to keep it at that point) and wrapped it around me, locked up the car, and started wading through the stream which had once been a road.

My first stop was by Caleb’s campsite, though some people had already started to pack up and leave so finding it was a little trickier than before. I eventually found it, but it was empty. I left the area near Pod #6 a little more broken, but a little more determined at the same time. When I reached the main road, I slowly slogged down Shakedown, methodically scanning the road ahead of me from side to side, which some of the remaining dealers trying to unload the rest of their stuff confused for the look of an active and eager buyer. After the fifth or sixth one approached me, offering numerous discounts, I elected to try out a different method, which was yelling his name at the top of my lungs. That didn’t work so well either.

When I reached Centeroo, I thought it best to try my luck searching some of the shows that were going on. I struck out at Kermit Ruffins and combed through the crowd leaving Umphrey’s McGee. I also tried to find him at Bob Weir and My Morning Jacket, but those two stages (being the largest) were impossibly crowded for me to realistically find anyone, though what I saw of My Morning Jacket was quite impressive.

Beaten, overwhelmed, and achy, I slunk off to the area of Centeroo close to where I had purchased the blanket. I took a seat in an empty plastic chair, soaking my butt in the process as it met the soggy pages of someone’s discarded newspaper. I looked on annoyingly as a very inebriated man attempted to climb a tree, and as he started to fall, he caused virtually every drop of run-off resting on the tree’s leaves to tumble down on top of me, and at that moment, I would’ve loved to see him just go down.

Why was I in such a bad mood? I had had a great time the day before, the rain had finally stopped, and the band I was most looking forward to seeing (Modest Mouse) was coming up very soon. So why was I so depressed?

I guess things just hadn’t turned out like I had imagined. The weather had been crappy all weekend, I had to buy new shoes just so I wouldn’t get trench foot, I hadn’t prepared well enough, and I felt like I barely got to see my friend with whom I had made this journey. It didn’t feel like a grand adventure anymore. It just felt like a big mess.

And just as I was about to throw in the towel on ever even considering returning to this or any music festival, I was reminded of the kindness of strangers.

Bonnaroo - always a bright idea (ca. 2009)

His name was Blake, he saw that I was upset, and he comforted me. Not in a touchy-feely way, he just went out of his way to help a person in need. As he handed me his phone—trusting a complete stranger with something as personal and valuable as a cell phone (granted this was before the days of the iPhone so it wasn’t that huge a deal...but I don’t know what his texting plan was like)—I think it all started to click again. People paid good money to come here, not only to see bands and hang out with their friends, they genuinely wanted—I genuinely wanted—to make connections, to share in the experience. To be there not only amongst one another, but also to be there with one another, to be there for one another.

After getting in touch with Ben, Blake led me to the tent I needed to get to. He stayed with me until I found him, and even afterwards. He hung out with us and we danced and laughed and drank beers and high-fived one another. He was there with us because he wanted to be. And all of a sudden, I wasn’t mad anymore. I just didn’t get it before.

After the festival Ben would tell me stories about the people he had met, the experiences they shared, the micro-journeys they went on with each other. I had stories of my own too, I just hadn’t realized it. I’ll never forget the umbrella girls, or the woman that was so excited about my Malibu T-shirt that she gave me a free drink, on my very first day there no less. I’ll never forget the girl who burst out of the tent to greet the rain, or that goofy drug dealer and his obviously rehearsed yet totally adorable innuendos.

Listening to John Butler with my new friend and my old friend, dancing in the mud, all that joy I had felt before that morning...it all came rushing back to me. I still had so much to look forward to, too: Modest Mouse, a little more Widespread Panic, the long, beautiful, lazy, drive home⁷...the prospect of all these experiences finally made me realize why people do this, why they make the trip and shell out the cash. It’s life, and we want to live it together, doing what we love—which is celebrating art and music and the outdoors, and most importantly, each other.

And that’s when the sun finally came out.

⁷ Incidentally we almost didn’t get to drive home; we got stuck in the mud for about an hour on our way out and had to be towed to the paved road. Such is life when you own a bitchin’ 90s minivan.

The Journey Continues Tomorrow ... Stay Tuned.