CULTURE

A last minute decision based off temperatures cooling in the Portland area led me to a lovely farm town just East of Portland called Happy Valley. And boy is that name accurate.

Simultaneously to my arrival, Pickathon Music Festival was kicking things off on the nearby Pendarvis Farm. Now festivals aren’t so much my speed, but this one stood out to me because they showcase a solid lineup of performers and have been making an attempt to host a “sustainable festival” by re-using metal cups, plates and forks; which the festival goer then buys one time upon purchasing their first food dish or drink… this not only keeps waste at a minimum but allows for drinks and food to cost less, on top of all this the proceeds go to charity. SOLID SHIT PICKATHON.

But, there’s one slight technical problem. I didn’t have a press pass as planned, MYCST and I were late on submitting my request, and I wasn’t about to pay hundreds of dollars for a shiny plastic wristband. So I was left with the option of sneaking in or going home; somebody should have let them know I have no home to go to – this might as well be it, so in we go! My first route, the nearly impossible, was to trek through thick forests which contained unpredictable dark floors coated with thorny blackberry bushes within which were bountiful amounts of spider friends that you’d just rather not meet. Believe me I tried, it hurt, they bit back and I continued. But hell this was never going to work out. While cursing into the empty forest I retraced my steps and found a more suitable, wider trail toward the front of the festival. This led me straight to far end of the parking lot where I found two people sitting between cars smoking and chatting – my way in. I ripped out all my camera gear from my bag, threw it around my shoulder, utilized one strap to cover my wrist and headed for the front gate. Not one word not one question, just a brisk walk through the dark entry with my left arm extended. Past the booth, through the gate, and in. Done, easy peasy. And to think I was about to wreck myself through the unforgiving forest, but it was all a past memory at this point – I had made it to the other side.

All sorts of creatures all sorts of sounds. Pickathon was the most vast yet compacted festival I’ve ever seen. One could find the band Priests thrashing and burning the Barn Stage down with perfectly distorted yet melodic punk jams and a piercing funk you attitude that chaotically sheds light upon society’s problematic contradictions. Following which I stumbled upon remarkable acts from Alex Cameron, Wolf People, Anna & Elizabeth, Hiss Golden Messenger and. Ty Segall. And lastly Tank and the Bangas, all the way from New Orleans, metaphorically deforested a clearing to the Woods Stage allowing the masses to pour into the newfound void and enjoy the unique raw power coming from within. The extraordinarily talented seven musical geniuses at work, or perhaps play – they seemed to be having too much fun – provided by far the most lively, playful and interactive performance human eyeballs have seen in years. And they sound wonderful, like a fragrance containing plumerias and coconuts for your ears if there ever were to be such a thing… so good you can taste it!

On one side of the festival you had an array of stages consisting of: two barns, a Mt Hood Stage, Starlight Stage, Woods Stage, Tree Line Stage, food stands, beer gardens, interview rooms, car camping, parking and more. The other area consisted of camping dispersed within the surrounding woods, of which were still close enough to hear the neighboring stages emit a pulsating groove through the forest.

Attendees varied, it seemed as though the entire community just plopped down in the forest for the weekend. Everyone from mothers and fathers with 2 month old babies to youthful students just looking for a release were camping out in the woods having a blast. The kids capable of doing so, what’s age I can’t tell, seemed to set up shop alongside the walkways to camp and would partake in busking or selling various trinkets all the while their parents enjoyed the festival – I suppose that’s one way to earn back a little coin toward such a pricey ticket.

Camp Lamp and the good people within allowed me to set up hammock on their lands after I approached them late Friday night and asked to lay with them on the field in front of main stage; and so we did beneath a canopy of waving fabrics illuminated a fiery reddish orange. A sunshade rather – but much much more interesting at this time of night under these temperatures and influences. Surely I speak for everyone included. We broke open bottles of wine, passed grass, and unintentionally almost grooved straight into the sunrise hours.

The following days consisted of pacing through dusty trails and diving into oceans of incoherent people from one side of the festival to another. It was wild. So wild that somebody must have slipped something in my drink one of the nights, now I may be good looking but I’m not that pretty lady you’re about to rape anytime soon. Conscious of such changes within my physical and mental state, also with the help of Katie’s expertise as well as self awareness, we both concluded that we had been drugged. Some fucker nabbed us. Luckily our sub group of roughly six folks from Camp Lamp was heading back to base. Upon letting everyone know of our current status we relied on the good ol’ buddy system to make sure no shaky business was about to occur and remained within our personal camps supervision; we were all stuck in our safe zone rolling around in the dirt that used to be a blanket. “Just playin’ dust bunnies for the night,” a success if there could ever be one when drugged in such a way.

The next day most people packed up and shipped out. As did I, the place was just overwhelming and I no longer felt at ease in such an environment. Dust coated and dazed I gathered my belongings and made headway for the front gate, took the long way out for the hell of it. Grabbed my Harley from the fire station and boogied toward the nearest river for solitude and a bath of some sort. “Let’s put this town in my rearview mirror.” A paradise turned nightmare, lucky for me I tend to wake up just in time.

– Highway Chile

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