"Do you think we're to old for this?" I asked as we tried in vain to get some Zzzzs before or early wake-up call.
"I sure hope not!" Paul replied, laughing and pointing to some greys in his receding black locks. Subtly pointing out that if I was too old, then he was definitely too old.
"And since when did I start saying 'do you think we're too old!?!'"
When the sun pierced through our blinds the next morning, my 30th birthday, we were not at all well-rested, though we were ready for what lay ahead: the Pemberton Music Festival.
Now I realize that I am writing this as if the music festival were a death sentence or a Star Trek convention or anything else that would equivalently put us at unease. But really, there was nothing to fear. Well, nothing but 40,000 teenagers and twenty-somethings in a crowded field with a ratio of 20:1 people to port-a-potties.
We grimaced, high-fived, and set forth.
Pemberton is a beautiful little pocket of a town just northwest of Whistler. It is nestled in a little valley in between huge mountains. Mount Currie, at 8500 feet loomed over our campsite. It was still snow-capped in this very warm month of July and was a breath of fresh air in a tent-city of thick dust.
We parked our car at the Pemberton Airport, a grassy strip about 10 kilometers from the festival site, hopped on a school bus packed to the brim with festival-goers - in the seats, in the aisles, standing, sitting, screaming, everything. Everyone was hot, sweaty, and slightly smelly. Paul and I included.
When we arrived at the festival grounds, we realized that we had to carry everything in on our backs and in hand. So our tents, food, clothes, camera, drinks, chairs, etc etc. I managed to squeeze by security with some Coronas secretly stashed inside my sleeping bag and felt instantly sly and victorious. Paul and our friend Mike, however, did not survive security unscathed. When we had discussed "hiding" our beers to smuggle them in, I took half and slyly positioned them in various points throughout my bags. Paul and Mike, however, had the brilliant idea of hiding the beer in the cooler. "So it will be cold," Paul said.
It was cold.
It was also confiscated by security when they opened the cooler and saw two rows of the delightful Mexican ale.
Boys.
So we trudged toward our camp spot, a literal patch of grass among other patches of grass among 40,000 other tents. Our friends, who had arrived a day before, had saved a little space for us. With packs on our backs and cooler in hand, the trek seemed long. So we paid a girl in a golf card $50 to take us the rest of the way. I bet she made a killing that day!
We found our friends, set up tent, cracked open a beer, and this is how the weekend unfolded:
DAY 1:
We didn't arrive until 6 PM or so. We walked around. We made note of life necessities -- port-a-potty locations (particularly where the jumbo, super-clean, deluxe wheelchair port-o-potties were located); funnel cake vendor; hot dog vendor; medical tent; girls with golf carts willing to take money in exchange for a ride; and market for fresh fruits and veggies.
We got to know our neighbours. Figuring that making friends was better than making foes, and that this initial effort would prove fruitful in the evenings while we were trying to sleep and the young'uns were still partying.
We left camp at 8 o'clock to go to the Nine Inch Nails show. This rock band has always been a little too hard and loud to win over my affection. That being said, I was anxious to see them play. I had heard that they put o na brilliant live show. An hour later, when they took the stage, I realized that was true. The show was a riveting combination of lyrics, beats, and laser lights.
We were in awe. We were banging our heads, letting loose, jumping wildly, flailing our arms, and generally kciking off our Pemberton experience with a bang!!
When the crowd dispersed after a crowd-thumping encore, we had our first taste of what would be the weekend's only real foible: the dust. As we herded out of the concert area like cattle, the dust kicked up and into all orifices. People coughed, gagged, and held handkerchiefs to their noses. We couldn't see three steps in front or any behind. It was a wild time.
Back at camp, we high fived and riled in the post-concert high. Nine Inch Nails had set the stage, and we all felt the excitement brewing. This was just the beginning.
Being the "old" people that we are, we were in the tent and fast asleep before midnight, while thousands of other campers partied on. Thank goodness for ear plugs!
DAY 2:
We woke up to a brilliant sun rise that rivalled anything I had ever seen before. the clouds were sparse and the sky was blue. The snow on Mount Currie glistened. It was like out of a fairy tale. Except for the stench of the port-o-potties, which after a day of use by 40,000 concertgoers had become appetizing enough to convince me to hold it until we arrived home three days later. It was a lofty goal, and one that, sadly, I could not meet.
In the afternoon, one of my favourite bands, Sam Roberts, was playing on the mainstage. Paul, Mike, and I arrived early to get a great spot. We were, maybe, 20 rows from the stage, and when Sam came on, he felt close enough to touch. And I felt he was singing to me. He rocked a great concert and we had a great sing-a-long. I belted out tunes from the top of my lungs. I smiled. I laughed. I felt like a kid. I had music in my heart and it was magic.
And then a 200-lb crowdsurfer, whose friend's had launched him into the air from a few rows back, landed square on my back. I bent forward and he slid down my back, taking my pants -- and my underwear -- with him. Bent over and bare-assed, I was quick to get Paul to step in.
"Are you ok?" he said, trying to help me up as the failed crowd-surfer struggled by my feet, caught up in a tangle of his own drunken stuper and my pants and underwear.
"My pants!!!!!" I screamed in horror. "My pants!!!"
But Sam Roberts was belting out another good tune and subsequently drowning out my cries for pants!
Paul tried to help me up.
"My pants!!!!"
"Your what?"
"Pants!!!!!" I pointed to my bare ass, white like a lighthouse beacon on a star-less night.
He looked.
He laughed.
And he yanked my pants up so hard and so fast, they nearly reached my shoulders.
As I looked around, the other concertgoers near by smiled, sneered, and winked at me.
"You know, I think about 30 people took pictures of your butt," said my friend Mike.
I nodded.
Knowing full well that back at the camp later that evening I would, quite literally, be the "butt" of everyone's jokes.
Still, Sam Roberts put on a heckuva show, so what if I lost my pants. Could have been worse.
We herded back to camp for some lunch (chips, chips, and more chips plus beer, beer and more beer) and to rest up before a triple-header line-up of three of our favourite bands: Tragically Hip, Flaming Lips, and Tom Petty.
A few clouds showed up mid-afternoon and threatened to ruin the day; when raindrops fell around 5 pm, the tents were wet but our spirits were not dampened. We played cards with sleeping bags over our heads. We drank beers as big drops fell. And just as we headed off to the concerts for the evening, the clouds parted, the sun shone brightly, and the gloriousness of our surroundings was again so apparent.
Three hours later, after a rousing set of crowd-pleasing favourites by insane showman Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip, an hour of musical theatrics by the Flaming Lips, and a big ol' sing-a-long with the legendary Tom Petty, we edged our way out of the main stage area and toward the Bacardi B-Live Tent, where some of North America's best DJs would be jamming until the wee hours.
Although we butted in line (gasp!) to ensure a spot in the tent and an opportunity to keep our adrenalin high going, the line came to a halt, and the bouncers ushered the thousands of people waiting back into the open field. the tent had reached it's capacity and no one else would be going in tonight. As we left dejected, Ryan, Mike and I looked at each other and shared a "bummer!", then Paul, having been ushered out behind us came excitedly out into the open field: "Are we in???" he said with child-like excitement and abandon. He looked around eyes wild wondering where the party was. "Are we in???!"
I was knee-slapping funny. Ryan howled. Mike guffawed. And I nearly peed my pants.
"No, baby, we're not in. We're still in the field."
it was one of the best moments of the entire weekend.
It was at this same time, as Ryan was bending over and slapping his knees that we got our first glance of what would prove the weekend's only casualty: Paul's leg.
"Dude, what happened to your legs?"
We looked down in unison. His legs were bright purple, like the skin of a plum and his feet had swollen in size so much that his sandals were pressing in and making sausage links out of his toes.
"It doesn't hurt" Paul said and shrugged.
So we ignored his medical emergency like good party-goers and tried to sneak into the tent. But after failing to bribe a security guard, scale a fence, and jump into a pick up... we headed back to camp.
"My legs are kind hot," Paul said.
We doused them in water.
Reluctantly used the port-o-potties.
and went to bed.
DAY 3:
It rained all night and we didn't care. We woke up still on a high from the Tom Petty concert and humming "Free Fallin'" in our heads. I dreamed that I was "an American girl" and Tom Petty was singing to me.
We also woke up with a plan.
The last band, Coldplay (yes!) was playing from 9:30-11:30 in the evening. Most people, we figured, would be too drunk or high or tired to attempt to drive home afterward. To avoid traffic, we figured we'd hope in the car post-Coldplay and jet home.
So we got up, waited for the sun to dry off the tents, packed them up, and headed for the shuttle stop so we could pack the car, then come back to enjoy the concert after.
In theory, this was brilliant. In reality, everyone else thought of the same brilliant idea. Well, not everyone, but a good third of festival goers spent the morning packing up and hauling stuff back to their cars.
We waited for an hour to catch a shuttle.
And walked through the airport for another hour trying to find our car in a sea of identical blue cars, it seemed.
Then we waited another hour to take the shuttle back.
Then 45 mins in line to get through festival security again.
Then, we were in!
Whew.
When we arrived back at camp, our friends were in their chairs, having beers, and their tents were long gone too!
"Where are your tents?" I asked.
"We took them back to the car."
I was dumbfounded. We had left before they had even woken up.
"But... how'd you get back here so fast?"
"We drove the car."
Still confused I said: "but... they aren't letting cars in."
"They are if you pay them 100 bucks," said my friend Chad with a wry smile.
So they all laughed at us, but at least we still had our hundred bucks.
We had made it back in time to watch a fabulous up-and-coming band: Death Cab for Cutie. It was a mellow performance with a lot of soul. Mike and I felt the groove. Paul felt like sleeping.
But before we headed back to camp in between sets, we decided to stop at the medical tent to see what the heck was going on with Paul's legs. They were ever more purple and his feet evermore sausage-like. The trisage nurse gave him some forms to fill out, looked at his legs, and said "What is that?" with a bit of unprofessional disgust. (In her defence, it was downright nasty.)
"I don't know," laughed Paul. "That's why I am here."
they moved him to another set of chairs with other ailing conertgoers. A young guy with an arm rash sat beside him.
"What the hell is that?" he asked, creeped out and curling his lip in disgust.
Paul shrugged.
"What the hell is that?" he said in return, looking at the guying bumpy arm rash.
A happy, young doctor in scrubs popped by and said "who's next?" like in a coffee shop.
the guy beside Paul, who was clearly next adn had been waiting longest, said like a martyr: "Take him. He should go first." and pointed to Paul.
"What's that?" asked the doctor.
Paul shrugged.
The doc poked and prodded.
And then he said: "Listen, you're not going to die today. I can't do anything. Do us both a favour and put on some pants, enjoy the rest of the show, then wash your legs when you get home. Your'e likely allergic to the dust."
He patted Paul on the back, wished him good luck, and set him free.
So we promptly headed back to camp, washed Paul's legs at the community watering hole (a bunch of taps in the middle of a sea of tents), elevated those puppies, and rested easy until Jay-Z's set.
"Who is this 'Jay-Z'?" Paul asked in one of his "older" moments and we all shared a laugh at his expense wondering how he had not heard of Hip Hop's biggest mogul and Beyoncé's hubby.
Although he was half an hour late and the crowd was restless, Jay-Z took the stage as the sunset wore off and a sprinkle of rain settled in again. With only a handful of Americans in the crowd, this Canadian contingent shouted "Jay-Zed, Jay-Zed!" And Jay-Z ate it up. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand from the first big bad beat, and with two drummers, a full horn section, and two guitarists, the party was quickly started! The crowd chanted, girls took off their shirts for a chance at getting on the big screen, and even Paul, who three hours before had wondered who the heck this Jay-Z guy was anyway, started groovin' to "99 Problems". It was a sight to behold.
And then, Coldplay arrived. Led by curly-topped Chris Martin (my future husband -- sorry Paul) and his band of merry men, this UK band took to the stage with heart and soul, belted out their best tunes, let the crowd sing the crowd-pleasing Yellow ("look at the stars / see how they shine for you!") while the clouds parted and the stars dropped dots of light onto the crowd. It was majestic. It was surreal. It was a concert of epic proportions. I didn't want to leave.
And then, just like that, with the last song and a final bow, Coldplay was gone, the concert was over, the festival was complete, and we had survived relatively unscathed save for a 45-second pant-loss, some purple legs, and some sausage toes.
Keen to avoid the line ups for the shuttle buses, we took advantage of the warm july evening, and walked the 10 km to our car, leaving shuttle buses of other eager concert-leavers to sit in amassed traffic for hours.
We arrived home at 5 a.m.
Showered (first time in three days)
and crashed into bed.
30 years old, 3 days, 40,000 people, 10 great bands, 1 very big beautiful mountain, two stunning sun sets, and 7 great friends.
It was the very best time.
And, no, I am not too old for this stuff.
not yet, anyway.
