I still have not got around to reading this book by John Fahey….
After a hard ride out of the endless dirt road leading from the monastery I slip through some of the loveliest scenery I have seen on my trip. Lakes the size of parks , full of water lilies, pristine valleys and clean white tarmac byways all scented with smoky pine and cedar as I drift inside the scenery – unrepeatable. Best of all, I have it all to myself. No German tourists, hardly any Canadians either… 400 miles on and on….
Passing through one of the little gold rush towns on the way, Greenwood.
It is amazingly unspoiled and is graced by the oddest couple running a true junk shop – absolutely full of crap, broken ornaments, worn chainsaws, incomplete bathroom fittings. The owner is interested in the bike, asking me where I came from. He says (with a thick accent resembling Norwegian-American) that his grandfather came to the town in the 1900’s from Churmany. He cuddles his pretty wife. “I am verking too hard, by yimminy! – not like my autistic son, now he LOVES to dismantle car engines!”
I reach the Canadian/US border again. The customs post here is run very tightly, I show my UK passport to the officer, I suppose I do appear a bit out of the ordinary, she asks me the full list of questions: where I was coming from, going to, how long the stay, date of departure, any drugs, how much money I was carrying etc etc. She asked me if I had any food, I showed her my half eaten packet of beef jerky, “thats ok sir, its made in the US”. Thank goodness for that, if it had been Canadian beef jerky, I might have been in trouble. She opens my passport and points to the Moroccan Via stamp – the Arabic script.. “whats this mean?” I apologise, confessing I did not know, telling her it was stamped in Marrakesh. “Where is that?” Morocco, I reply. She notes my license plate and goes inside for what seems like ages. I am finally waved on – thankful for not being strip searched and held for questioning. I suppose after a computer check the bike is in my name and the flight times tally with my story and I continue on my journey.
As the sun sets I reach … hustling the bike along at 75 as the light fails, I find that no-one has any beds for sale and I wander over to an RV park, the plump young woman says that I should make for the fairground off the main highway. I left it too late, cursing myself, I find the fairground, no fair but an assembly of temporary stables, pickups, kids in cowboy hats rinsing down handsome tan horses, western saddles being cleaned up… I ask where is the campground, I am directed down to the end of the huge site and more Rvs parked, in circles, like wagon trains. This time, groups of elderly people sit in folding chairs, more cowboy hats and boots, playing musical instruments. I ask where I can pitch my tent and they shrug their shoulders.
I have got the tent pitching down to 10 minutes, including removal of all my saddlebags and clutter, packed inside the tent ready for when I crash out. I grab my minidisk and camera and wade down to the groups of musicians.
This group has been meeting here for the last 20 years when, after a small disagreement with a promoter, the musicians were not paid so they decided to stay and play amongst themselves. This tradition has continued in the same fairground park ever since. Apparently the numbers have decreased from 90 odd musicians to around 30. I joined the largest group and asked if I could drop the MD recorder in the middle of their circle, they obliged and offered me a folding chair next to them.
It was certainly an absolute contrast to the dour stoic 5 previous days I had survived. They all smoked like chimneys, laughing and cackling to each other. Bluegrass was never a top favourite of mine but it was all so natural and authentic, it did not matter. They had the right to do it and were imitating no-one – they were the music. I have a lot of it on MD and I need to sort it out. This was the penultimate day in a week of music – they asked if I was going to attend the gathering at Dale Berg’s farm in Libby Montana in the second week of August. To my regret I could not be there. For the record, it is at Snyders Field Farm, in Libby, near the village called Yak. The festival is called Pasture Pickin’ and it not found on the internet. All the assembled musicians and more were going.
Richard (guitar) and Dale (banjo)
Richard, in his 60’s a strong singer and player. I was told he was addicted to drink and drugs, now counsels young offenders in prison. Roy Brady, on fiddle had just come out of hospital after being operated for cancer. In the circle were 4 guitars, a steel dobro, fiddle, double bass, gutbucket bass, 3 mandolins and two banjos. No one was recording the session until I showed up.
We sat under the awning, lit by a bright neon fed from one of the RVs, the train whistles and hoots and dogs barking behind us we sat until 1AM and I crawled into my tent., the trains hooting through the night.
