Fruitful Harvest

Season's change is never sudden. It sneaks up on silent haunches, leaving small traces of its presence. A gust of cool wind and speckled leaves foreshadow fall. When the persistent sun of summer finally settles and the tops of tress have molted into shades of red, it has arrived. For me, this means only one thing: Harvest is upon us.

For the past three years, it has become tradition for me and my friends to attend Harvest Bluegrass Music Festival in the Ozark mountain range of Arkansas. Every October, we make the five hour drive over flat plains to our neighbor state. We pass the time with silly car games and iPod playlists created to jazz us for the upcoming concerts. Each year, my best friend, Katherine, makes the commute from her home town of Little Rock to join us at the festival. We only get to see each other a few times a year, so this event has become an important tradition in our friendship. But as with all tradition, there is a first time. I will never forget the excitement and awe I felt at my very first music festival.

After hours of driving on wide open roads in my SUV, packed with friends and camping gear up to the ceiling, we arrived at the bottom of the mountain. The road tapered and the treeline creeped up to the edges of the asphalt as we ascended the path.

“Christ! We're supposed to drive up this?!” someone pipped from the back.

I gripped the wheel, my knuckles turning white as the road grew steeper and steeper. It began to weave through the foliage, 90 degree angles at each turn. The dim light of dusk failed to breach the branches. I could only see as much paved road as my headlights would reach. I was blinded each time a car passed in the opposite direction. Just when I thought my nerves were about to explode and render me incapable of preventing us from careening off a cliff, we reached the top.

We stopped at a gate where a husky, old man with waist-length hair was collecting tickets. After the transaction, we continued down the road to where the trees gave way. Down below, the falling light of the day illuminated the expanse of the greenest valley I've ever seen. Thousands of tents clustered around the area where the main stage stood. Smoke stacks rose into the sky where an enormous, orange balloon hovered, appearing to be a second moon. The music that echoed through the valley was drown out by our simultaneous cheers. We had made it... alive!

I recall being unable to shake the feeling that I was leaving Earth and entering a new dimension as we drove through the sea of hippies and hillbillies. When we arrived at our campsite, Katherine stood in front of her fully-assembled tent with one hand on her hip and an expression that asked “what took ya so long?”

I jumped from the car and wrapped my arms around her, my face caught in her tangled hair that had grown so long in our separation. We immediately plopped our bodies down in the grass and gabbed for about an hour while the boys set up our site. As the light waned, the energy amongst the crowds of people grew. There is nothing quite like night life at a festival. It's a trip.

Once settled, we decided to explore, agreeing to meet back at camp... well... whenever. I took my boyfriend, Trevor, in one hand and Katherine the other, and we set off down one of the paths that merged at the stage. The madness that ensued that night has become a haze of bright colors, geometric patterns, and melodic sounds in my memory. But I will do my best to describe it.

First it was the path. It began to sway in rhythm to the banjo solo... right foot cross left, left foot cross right. Tufts of grass protruding from the gravel wriggled like worms. They licked my ankles as I passed. We stumbled upon the realm of the hoolahoopers and pyromaniacs. Circles of light danced through the night air as they maneuvered their bodies around the rings and vise versa, an exposé of their craft.

We ventured farther to the road lined with kiosks and booths draped bizarre fabrics, displaying meticulously hand-crafted knick-knacks. From all directions, people shouted, “Happy Harvest!” We stopped to join a crowd gathered around a man on stilts, sporting a shimmering lime-green tux with a matching top hat.

One person commented, “It's like the sequins are little galaxies on the fibers of his coat!”

Another man leaned in towards the three of us and, with eyes as wide as watering holes, said “Don't lose your face.”

At this, Trevor pulled Katherine and me away from the spectacle.
“That's a bit too much for me right now!” he said.

We thoroughly agreed and made our way towards the main stage, where the salty sounds of Yonder Mountain Sting Band split the sky.

Someone shouted from across the field. “AHHHHHHHTUUUUMM!”

It was the rest of the gang! We sprinted towards them, reunited after what felt like weeks of walking through a psychedelic circus. Sprawled out on blankets, underneath an ocean of listlessly drifting sky lanterns, we spent the rest of the night simmering in the sounds of bluegrass, the music of the bush and backwaters.

October is nearing and the time of Harvest has come once again. This year, not only do I plan to attend the festival, but I hope to be a part of it. I entered one of my original songs in the first ever Harvest songwriting competition. If I am chosen, I will play on the same stage as my musical inspiration and all-time favorite artist, Joe Purdy. Even as I write, the excitement expands, bouncing off my insides like a rickety pinball machine.

This year, fall has lost its stealth. I've been ready for it. I am keeping a sharp eye out for speckled leaves and a tuned ear for the distant sounds of southern twang rolling down the sides of the Ozarks.