I usually write the last post of each trip the week after we get back. Or occasionally the next month. Life with toddlers doesn’t often lend itself to casually writing at a coffee shop.
But this post takes the cake. It’s now a solid four years after I last wrote about our Folks Fest road trip. I took some notes, snapped a few photos, and figured I’d write the rest after I got back. On-site camping at a folk music festival isn’t exactly the take-out-your-laptop vibe. But work was busy when I got back, then the holidays came around, and then the world fell apart. Remember the winter of 2019, everyone? Remember how we just walked around without masks thinking we’d have some extra free time once January gets here? Hoo boy.
But I won’t belabor the point. That story has been written. The months turned into years, and I remembered in the back of my head that I had left the road trip blog unfinished. Then “wasn’t there something I needed to do with the blog?” Then, (crickets chirping) as life moved on.
In fact, I don’t think I would have even noticed that these posts were unpublished if I hadn’t pulled up the blog as we got ready for another trip (Belize, more on that later).
I probably would have just read the posts, smiled, maybe sent them to Aimee, and then deleted them. The only reason I’m finishing it up is because those next couple of days introduced us to some of our best friends to this day.
So there we were, four years ago almost to the day. We rounded out our roadtrip through some sleepy ghost towns in New Mexico and a surprisingly delightful Best Western in Raton, CO (seriously).
By the time we rolled up to Denver, everyone was in good spirits. We paced the trip slowly and made sure we consumed no fewer than 200 calories an hour. I had reserved an RV rental for the rest of the trip, since we weren’t sure how a one year old would nap in the tent we usually take to the festival.
After we secured the RV (with Aimee a safe distance away with the kids, since I wasn’t sure if my carseats-buckled-into-the-couch plan was entirely legal), we needed to drop off the car somewhere. I asked at the RV counter if they had any suggestions about where I should leave my car. They said, “Absolutely! There’s a lot right behind us that’ll store your car for $10 a day.”
So we transferred our gear and pulled up to the lot. This was greeting us.
On one hand, I was a little terrified. On the other hand, I figured the owner (inhabitant? Squatter? Last man on earth?) had no fewer than three shotguns in his trailer. No one would be messing with our car.
$30 later (cash only, of course), we were in the last hour of our road trip up to the music festival.
Of course, an hour was really more like three. Although we did get one our favorite photos ever of the kids, so all the stops were worth it.
But that did mean we’d be getting in after the sun went down. For those who have never been to a Planet Bluegrass festival, people plan their trips there years ahead of time. The campsite opens two days before the festival, and most people are set up before the first star is out. So when we rolled up at 10 pm the night before the music started, the place was packed to the gills. Tents were up, guitar circles were formed, and there was a very particular scent wafting through the air.
It took two laps to even find a site, and even then, I was 90% sure I couldn’t fit our 17 foot RV in it. But after a third lap to confirm it was the only option, I slowly nudged my way in, trying not to blind more than 30 or 40 people with our headlights.
Here’s my note from that next morning.
Got in late. Every site set up. Cool neighbors.
At least that’s how I remembered it. To hear our now-friends tell the story, some A-hole stunk up the campsite with their exhaust fumes, woke up everyone, rolled over the guy-wires on our tent, and then had the audacity to be from Arizona!
They were not wrong. But after a full charm offensive over the next 24 hours (they were the only campers to bring a kid younger than ours), all was forgiven.
The festival was a delight. We listened to three days of wonderful music, caught up with lots of old friends, and turned our neighbors into the type of friends we shared a beach house in Mexico with not two months ago. An absolutely wonderful experience all around.
That would have probably been a nice point to wrap up the blog for this trip. My memory is fuzzy, the notes are sparse, and we do have another trip this week to get ready for. But there was one more story of note on the way home.
On a tip from our new friends, we took a different route home through Colorado’s peach-growing country (Who knew? But they’re amazing.) and spent the night at a hotel built next to a natural hot spring. We spent our last full day of the trip splashing around in 80 degree water and loved almost every minute of it.
But Mimi and I thought it would be fun to go on the lazy river ride before we called it a day. I wasn’t as alarmed as I clearly should have been by the three flights of stairs you had to climb before you reach the mouth of this “lazy” river. Nor did I turn around when multiple groups of people ahead of us changed their minds and headed back down. How hard could it be?
After the 19 year old at the start of the ride looked at Mimi, shrugged, and handed us our figure-8 float tube, I put her in the front hole and launched us down the slide. Of course, the hole was twice as big around as she was, so after a valiant effort holding her in with my feet for the first 10 seconds, she shot out of the tube and I was barely able to grab her before getting launched myself.
All I remember about the next part is thinking, “She’s 3 years old and can’t swim, just hold her out of the water.” So I did. Arms outstretched through just enough water to fully submerge my nose and mouth as we slid down the concrete “river.” I was eventually able to slow myself down enough after three more turns to stand up and place her on the ground that we had mercifully worked ourselves down to.
Through the adrenalline, I couldn’t feel a thing. But the crowd at the top started to point and ask if I was ok. Then the 19 year old running the ride saw us and went ashen. Mimi was clearly fine (I actually think she was giggling at that point), but he asked me to go to the first aid station while another 19 year old admirably tried to apply a few little Band-Aids to this.
I still have a few scars to this day. But I also have a few stories. Worth every bit of it.
And with that, I think it’s time to turn my attention back to our next trip. I want to get that blog done before 2027.
