Eleven a.m. on Thursday, Aug. 12 was a most joyous occasion. Endless hours of automobile slavery finally saw the fruit of its labor as a travel-weary Phish-bound Tahoe slowly approached what seemed at that moment to be the only town worthy of existence.
There before us, in a spread of glory, was the fine settlement of Coventry, VT. It was such a magical place. With a beautiful landscape spilling in every direction, Coventry was adorned with endless signs, compliments of the natives, welcoming us to their quiet home. The messages were no doubt sincere, yet you could almost feel their nerves begin to shake as they watched this foreign nation invade their homeland. The purpose driving our quest was something they couldn’t quite comprehend. But regardless of understanding, the kind people of Coventry stood tall and accepted our arrival with a smile.
With a tiresome and less-than-delightful drive behind us, we finally embraced the most beautiful traffic jam ever to have existed. Full of the faithful Phish following, we knew it would soon lead us to a musical utopia. As we came to a stop, we understood we were joining the ranks, falling in line with our fellow soldiers to begin the familiar battle between staff and concert-goer.
Nine hours and several hair-loss moments later, we finally laid eyes on the place we would call our home for the next five days.
The Newport State Airport welcomed us with open arms as we gave up our car for inspection. Logically, the inspector confiscated a plastic bat while making sure that any glassware present was protected from the search. Upon realizing such an unusual freedom, we pressed on and finally arrived at the little piece of Coventry we so proudly claimed as our campsite.
Possibly the longest two days of my life suddenly seemed like mere minutes.
At that moment, nothing really mattered. Any hardship of frustration so vivid before had faded into repressed memories as we looked ahead to what would surely be the greatest weekend of our lives.
Friday morning arrived and so began the exploration of our accommodations. First off, attention must be brought to the unfortunate rainfall that had so conveniently begun its steady descent upon our arrival. Apparently, the Coventry soil was rather offended by the presence of so many feet and transformed into a never-ending slough of mud. Braving the mud sans footwear proved the most tactful approach for combating the terrain, considering that the outcome for most shoe wearers was a sudden loss of the aforementioned item to the relentless mud.
But even so, nothing could get us down, not with what awaited us the following night. And so we continued to explore the grounds, visiting a vast array of determined vendors. From a vegetarian stir-fry to a grilled cheese, we were supplied with some form of gratification for every need, save the option of a real restroom and consistent running water. Hygiene aside, we were set.
The first sign of tragedy appeared early Saturday morning as we awoke to a bleak newscast on the radio. Amidst the joyful festivities, the sly and heartless rain had destroyed acres and acres of hopeful campground. The flooding of eager travelers into the compound was suddenly brought to a devastating halt. Despite the indefinite pursuit of a solution, it became clear that nothing could be done, and the miles and miles of innocent traffic was therefore turned away. It surely couldn’t be true. How could you tell someone of so much determination and endurance that though they had journeyed across the country to experience as one of the greatest tributes to a band, their trip, after all, was indeed a waste? It surely would have to be the most psychologically damaging piece of information ever conveyed. And so began the return of defeated travelers from whence they came. Several chose not to give up and began a high-mileage hike from their parked car to the grounds, not even sure of a successful entry. But no less should be expected from the spirit of a true Phish fan.
As the day carried on, excitement grew as we realized how close we were to the very reason for our trip. In our hearts, we grieved over the injustice that befell so many innocent fans. But we couldn’t ignore the buzzing excitement as we made our way to the stage.
Everywhere you looked you could see the vast crowd growing by the thousands. As we entered the gates, I looked across the flowing sea of music-crazed hippies in amazement. Never before have I seen so many people gathered in one place for one band. The commitment and faithfulness of the Phish following is hard to describe. So many emotions unleashed when Trey, Mike, Page and John finally embraced the stage and began the first of six sets to be presented during the next two nights.
Those two nights saw the genuine interaction of a band so closely tied from their 21years of musical interaction.
Tears were shed and praises exchanged among the band members and their faithful crew. The evidence of such an unbelievable bond between each member was so strong that you almost wondered if they really would call it quits after all. It seemed impossible that after so many years, the guys of Phish would actually part ways and end what was surely the most amazing chapter of their lives. But the end did come and so did that realization that this was it Phish had finally finished their victorious race.
The walk back to the car was long and slow. Tens of thousands of people and not much more than a murmur was present. Such a great end to an unforgettable era. Yet looming in the hours before us was a course so unexpected that nothing really could have prepared me for the misery that would conclude my journey.
At 2 a.m., Monday morning, we loaded our truck and began our long ride back to the South. Expecting traffic, we pulled out of our spot and came to an immediate stop on the neighboring road. Knowing that our driver would eventually need relief, the rest of us decided to stock up on sleep.
Six or seven hours later, expecting to see that quickly passing interstate, we awoke with a strange sense of deja-vous, followed by the crushing realization that we had moved all of 20 feet. Still hopeful that the line was about to get moving, we watched the day slowly unfold while inching forward every few hours. It seemed unreal. The way things were going, we would spend at least a week just trying to make it to I-91.
There were planes to catch, classes to start and lives to return to. The situation seemed grim, and conditions only got worse as time ticked away. The water source had been depleted long ago and no signs were given that it would be replenished. Port-a-potties were left unattended and were eventually rendered useless, except to the brave soul who could handle a sight and smell so foul that the senses should never have to encounter.
Food vendors were packing up as a result of supply depletion and I began to wonder how far my peanut-butter-and-jellys would carry me. Cars were breaking down, getting stuck and any movement in the line was somewhere hindered by drivers so incoherent as an attempt to cope with the unbelievable circumstances. I truly thought that Wednesday classes would start without me.
But soon after the promise of movement by a skeptical radio voice, my eyes caught a distant line of cars making more progress than I’d seen in the past 15 hours. After a few quick maneuvers, we left our place in line and headed across a field, hoping to find invitation to the fastest moving traffic anyone had seen in a week. It was as if the clouds suddenly parted and a beam of sunlight shone directly on our car.
The line moved along as anticipated, and in 30 minutes, we were finally released from what seemed like a life-sentence in prison. In that moment, the past 15 hours were suddenly erased.
Only minutes ago, I was wondering how I could sincerely look back on my experience with fondness. Never before had I lived in conditions so foul that the unanimous sentiment of our surroundings was that of a concentration camp. Frustration and hopelessness were at their peak, and the beauty of the previous night had tragically faded.
But no matter how unbearable our conditions became, nothing could break the bond that was shared among every fan within the grounds: a love for music so strong that it will drive you across the country, make you wait in endless lines of exhaust, live in the most disagreeable conditions, and still find you smiling in satisfaction as you leave. In retrospect, it truly was a phabulous week.