And it was Saturday morning, and I was about twenty miles west of Willows when the asphault ended and this gravel road started up the side of the mountain and my brakes are three days from replacement and I’ve got a Kia van that is comfortable in the city but ain’t quite sure what to do with a gravel road. But heaven awaits somewhere up top of that mountain, and who needs brakes going up hill anyway. And I almost hit a deer a mile back, just a little fellow, hardly enough to raise a dent, and I started thinking about Scott Valley and how I ran over a dead deer in the road, sometime after midnight, 20 miles from nowhere, coming back too fast from a great festival weekend in Etna and I was thinking that happened in my other Kia van, and I remember driving all the way home to Sacramento wondering if I was gonna be leaving my transmission laying on the highway somewhere between Shasta and Redding, and I was wondering if it was worth it all, and I had to admit it was, after I got home and in bed and got to remembering the festival glow, and feeling that itch to get up and do it again.
And Randy Morton or one of the Rumiano’s or one of their friends had tied white surveyors tape to trees along the road to mark the way to this weekends heaven and I’m feeling reasonably secure until my engine light came on. Now I’m operating on about five or so hours of sleep after a heavy week, and last night we were whooping it up over at Armondo Garcia’s place, playing that bluegrass music, eating his food, entertaining his family, enjoying The Zuniga’s and Chef Mike and Rob Wilburn and Larry Kuhn and the rest of our motley crew. And my wife is telling me I’m doin’ too much of this, and she’s got a point because the week after next is bluegrassin’ in the foothills, and the week after that is Hobbs grove and I’m going to both if them, and I’d think about some more except that I went left instead of right, and now I’m out here in bear country and my cell phone is getting almost no reception and there still surveyor tape tied to trees, but it’s the wrong color, and I’ve got the sense of direction of a 16 year old who just got off of the Tilt -a -Whirl at the fair, and all of a sudden I realize I’m going down hill instead of up so I go on down because there really ain’t to place to turn. And I’m remembering how it was a couple of years ago when I took a wrong turn going to the fair grounds in grass valley and hit a rock on a side road because I was talking on my cell phone instead of paying attention to driving and I was in full festival fever thinking about picking and singing and seeing that couple from Montana who sang those cowboy songs…
And I finally found a place to turn around and this time I kept my eyes where they should be and I saw sign saying CBA’rs welcome, and I see a couple of R.V.s and a an A Frame up on the hill and stop and I hear the music……
I recognize that fiddle. Whooee!!
I feel like a freight train in the middle of Nebraska.
These are my people! Pat and John Rumiano have their little piece of paradise.
Up here in this magic place. Loving this music. Drawing these musicians into their beautiful world.
And I’m sitting out here picking. Playing with Kelly Broyles, and Lucy, and Mikki, and Randy Morton’s band. And Tom and Sharon and wonderful people I’ve never met before, but who feel like they’ve always been part of my life. Sitting out here on stage built lovingly on the mountain, in homage to bluegrass and community.
And the deer are feet away. Standing close enough to eat your tortilla. Looking at my Van, telling each other to stay out of it’s way. Listening to the music.
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