home again, home again.

Hobbits do not like to be far from the shire, and damn am I happy to be back to my humble little corner of the ghetto. I don’t even know where to begin describing the events of the past weekend. What day is it? Tuesday?

The chiggers were out and they deposited their acidic saliva in my legs and then drank the liquified flesh before leaving, satiated.

We rode the bridge to bridge trail on the Suwanee and I sweated DEET into my eyes, which burns like pepper spray, in case you were wondering.

Emmy Lou Harris sang “Grievous Angel” and it was possibly the most beatiful sound I have ever heard. I went to the festival listening to NOFX, Dropkick Murphys, Mos Def, and Face to Face. I was not in a “folky” mood, but let me tell you, that song melted my heart.

The cicadas and the tree frogs singing the chorus…

Out with the truckers and the kickers and the cowboy angels, and a good saloon in every single town,

And I remember something you once told me, and I’ll be damned if it did not come true,

Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down,

And they all lead me straight back home to you.

Rivers have magic in them, and I was lucky enough to receive the blessing of both the Suwanee and the Wakulla. I got to stink like a rotting mullet in the company of people I love and who love me back, in places where Florida is clean and wild, uncomfortable and dirty, and everything that Orlando is not.

It rained last night so Munson Hills is prime for a fast lap. A big plate of barbed wire and a hot mug of turpentine are waiting in the kitchen, and life is pretty fuckin’ good these days.

2 Responses to home again, home again.

  1. Good to ride with the boys, even the blinded and suffering Juancho, but all in in all, Bridge to Bridge was a soggy mess. Still, the ride had its moments. I rode it better than last year, and managed not to mar my legs further. Sunday solo ride at the Shoalses (Big and Little) was the hilite for hitops. Lonely but exhilarating. And I wasn’t busting ass trying to keep up with Juancho, Sasquatch, or, God forbid, Powder.

    For me, this trip turned out to be more about the trails and the river than the festival proper. Still, I dug the music, especially the submlimely morose Emmylou. Sunday I was drawn to the Dance & Heritage Stage for Cajun music. Found I still can’t do the waltz (apologies to the unfortunate woman who agreed to dance with me), and my normal pogo seemed to make the twirlers nervous.

    Wished I could have hit Munson Tuesday after the rains, but work called. More rain on the way, so it should be firmer still by the time I can get out there.