Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Fear and Loathing in West By God (Part VII)


For a complete listing of the first six parts of this story, as well as all of the adventures in The Island Chronicles, please click here on The Table of Contents.


Gauleyfest 2014 - A Shit Show of Epic Proportions

"I just want to kayak and slay some honeys and go to bed with a full belly."
~Ollie~



   My Dirt Bag Mobile plodded up the mountain deep in the no mans land that lies between Ohiopyle and Friendsville. Pink and Stink were strapped securely down on the top of the roof, the trunk was crammed tightly with rivah gear, and the back seat was piled high with clothes, bags, and junk collected from a year's worth of Dirt Bag adventures. Flan and I were headed south to the land of The Gauley, and we were starting off our late morning drive with a friendly safety session for focusing purposes. Our safety gear was well worn in, and sticky goo was clogging up our ability to successfully fill our minds with impregnability. We searched for a solution to the problem throughout the clutter filled mess that my car had become from two weeks on the road. Eventually we reached the top of the mountain, and decided to pull over and sort through the layers of trash, clothing, junk, and gear, hoping for a paper clip...................talk about trying to find a needle in a haystack.
   Eventually we succeeded in our mission, and as we sat in the pull off at the top of the mountain in literally the middle of nowhere, silence surrounded the car as I worked the paperclip through the thick, smelly, black goop preventing us from a safe ride. Eventually that silence was broken by the faint puttering of a pickup truck struggling up the mountainside from the opposite end of the road. Flan and I continued dealing with the chore of clean safety gear as a beaten down redneck pickup truck emerged over the crest of the mountain. Two men, both of whom were obviously deeply ingrained locals, pulled the struggling truck alongside our car, as thick white smoke streamed out from under the hood. The front wheel well of the truck pulled directly next to Flans passenger side window. Flan and I continued to observe the scene, only to see small flames flickering in the wheel well from behind the tire of the truck. Flan calmly rolled down his window and kindly initiated the attention of one of the patrons of the truck. “Excuse me sir. I believe your truck is on fire.” The gentleman calmly exited the truck and inspected the small car fire brought to his attention by Flan………there was still no panic by anyone. After a few seconds of contemplation, the gentleman looked back in the cab of the truck, and instructed his buddy to hand him a 24 ounce bottle of Mountain Dew sitting in the cup holder. He then returned to the wheel well and poured the entire bottle over the fire. As he did, the streams of white smoke quickly turned into billowing clouds of thick steam and ash that began to fill the cab of our Dirtbag Mobile. Flan calmly hit the power window button without saying a word and the outside chaos was immediately cut off from our own little world inside the car…………the only thing left to do was drive away, so that is what we did.
   A few silent moments passed within the car as if nothing had happened. Then I decided to speak.  “Did we just watch a West By God Redneck put out his own car fire with a Mountain Dew?” I asked with a grin on my face. “Yes. Yes we did.” Flan responded. The two of us started down the mountain and across the Maryland border, with Water Street Pepperoni Rolls in our near future ………….man this trip had gotten weird.


“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
                                                 ~Ernest Hemingway~



   We arrived in Friendsville around lunchtime on another beautiful rivah day. The morning Upper Yough rush had already departed Water Street on their way to the put-in, and the streets of Friendsville were temporarily free of vagrant Dirt Bags, demonstrating the peace and tranquility that makes one fall in love with small town life. The scene was perfect for a lackadaisical day off and a pit stop on our way south.
   We found Chris hard at work as always behind the counters of the CafĂ©, ready to create his whitewater famous crack rolls. The pepperoni rolls at Water Street cannot be adequately described within the content of this text……….they are a rare Western Maryland delicacy that must be experienced in order to understand the culinary heaven that has been created. Securing a warm, greasy bag after a 9 mile paddle of Class IV whitewater, creating a raging hunger unimaginable to most, makes the rolls even more delicious. Chris is a master chef, and his artistry does not go unnoticed by the whitewater world.
   We spent the early afternoon stuffing our faces and confabulating with Chris about the humorous endeavors we had witnessed throughout our weeks of Dirt Bagging.  One of my favorite aspects of the Upper You
gh whitewater scene is the warm and friendly environment that greets you when you step inside the Water Street Cafe.  Chris is a very intelligent and very friendly character to confabulate with, and I always cherish my conversations with him over a cup of coffee.  Whether we banter back and forth about literature and writing, or simply shoot the shit about the whitewater community and the different aspects of boating, a day at Water Street is always time well spent.
   With our bellies full of coffee, pepperoni, cheese, and dough, we departed Friendsville and continued our pilgrimage south. The land between Friendsville, Maryland and Summersville, West By God represents the deepest and most desolate region in the entire Mid-Atlantic. There truly is nothing but small West By God towns like Thomas and Phillippe within this area, winding cricks and rivahs in deep gorges, and endless tracts of State and National forests that seem to stretch for countless distances. The drive to Summersville was peaceful and beautiful, carrying us over high ridge tops as we crept closer and closer towards the inevitable shit show of Gauleyfest……..and shit was most certainly about to hit the fan. 


“The fear of the drugs running out is manageable-the fear of time running down isn't.”
~Ann Marlowe~ 



   Flan and I arrived at the Gauleyfest venue around 5pm, clueless about the marketing extremes that Chicago Mike and company had gone to in order to pull off a Friday night party within the 
grounds . The DBP crew had set up camp close to a large fire circle in the back of the complex. Shredder Aaron parked his rape van next to the circle and set up shop with a small video monitor for whitewater porn. Behind the van was an inflated 12 foot raft stocked full of ice and 75 cases of beer. Next to the van was a small table displaying T-shirts, stickers, and pointless shwag created by Chicago Mike to sell to clueless and drunk Dirt Bags throughout the night. None of this set up had been sanctioned by the event promoters, making the entire party highly illegal and rather disrespectful to the sponsor, American Whitewater. 
   For all of the non-whitewater boaters reading this story, let me educate you briefly on the history of Gauleyfest and the partnership with American Whitewater in order to understand the amount of impiety that this party represented……………. 

   "Gauleyfest began in 1983 as a celebration over the derailment of a hydro-electric project that would have disrupted the flows of the world famous Gauley Rivah.  Over the years it has become whitewater's largest gathering, but more importantly it has become the primary fundraiser for American Whitewater, the organization within the boating community that fights for the advocacy and stewardship of whitewater rivahs across the country.  This organization has been instrumental in dam removals, clean water initiatives, rivah access, as well as countless other victories in whitewater throughout the years.  All proceeds from Gauleyfest go towards American Whitewater and their fight to save countless rivahs in the future."

   When Flan and I arrived we found Chicago Mike setting up for the evenings events.  He had secured the headline band for the festival to play an acoustic show around the fire circle during the festivities, and he planned to use free food and drinks to entice the crowd to attend.  Dale, Mackenzie, and the rest of the DBP crew were out and about in the campground promoting the party and recruiting "acceptable" candidates for the Wet T-Shirt Contest.
   My personal opinion of the event was that it would not be pulled off, so I did not take part in helping with the set up.  I truly didn't see the point.  Chicago Mike was spending his own money to throw the party and make a buck at a non-profit event in an attempt to do what???...............to this day I still don't have an answer to that question.  My only conclusion is that he wanted to do the same thing he had been doing since he began DBP, and is still doing to this day.  He wanted to bribe the whitewater community for popularity purposes...........we will come back to that topic later.
   My natural Dirt Bag instincts cajoled my senses towards the free beer.  I cracked open a PBR and started the evening off right...........within an hour I was drunk..........again.  Around 8pm or so people started to show up, and the popping of PBR's was evident in 2 second intervals.  From this point forward for the remainder of the night things moved at a very quick pace.
   At this stage of the story it is important to point something out............I was wasted, and I mean blackout wasted.  I remember bits and pieces of the night and through piecing together my own vague recollections, as well as the hand full of stories that have been told to me by friends, acquaintances, and random strangers, I have created this account of the evening.  I held off telling it to this point for a variety of reasons.......

1.  I'm an unmotivated Dirt Bag re-establishing my place in society
2.  The Island Chronicles come second to my REAL life
3.  I have never attempted to write a story that I only vaguely remember
4.  I am somewhat embarrassed about the party that was thrown and the fact that I was a part of it
5.  Shit hit the fan, and everyone who was there knows it

   As people began to mobilize, a few things became evident................

1.  The party was about to go down in a big way
2.  Mackenzie was the marketing genius behind its success
3.  Dirt Bag chicks were eager as hell to show off their mammary glands
4.  Shredder Aaron, as always, was intent to make a complete jack ass of himself
5.  Chicago Mike knew what he was doing, regardless of whether or not it was morally or ethically correct

   Around sunset, with the band playing and the crowd becoming thicker and thicker and rowdier and rowdier, I was asked to man the Shwag Booth................I did not want to do this.  I remained there for about five minutes before doing what it is that I always do well.  I said "fuck it" and simply abandoned my post.  I could care less if a bunch of poor Dirt Bags wanted to spend their remaining dollars on a bunch of shit they didn't need.  And I certainly didn't want to help DBP exploit the work of American Whitewater..........which was exactly what Chicago Mike was doing.  I simply didn't care, so I did what I wanted to do.  The reason that I point this out is because at some point after my abandonment of the post, a shit load of shwag was stolen and Aaron and Mike became extremely Butt Hurt about it for weeks following the festival.  They even posted accounts of the theft on Facebook, attempting to manipulate the culprits into admitting that they had stolen the merchandise.  The most amusing part of the entire incident and the reason I point it out now is because no one ever connected the dots as to why the items were stolen.......................because I abandoned my post.  The entire situation was my fault, and I still find it hilarious considering I never agreed with the creation or sale of the crap DBP pawns off on the Dirt Bag world.  DBP was never about making a buck.  The day Chicago Mike made a buck off the idea is the day the TRUTH of DBP died.
   So instead of selling pointless crap, I wondered into the crowd, piss drunk and without a job to do.............idol hands are the devil's playground.  I noticed the crowd numbers were quickly growing into the hundreds, and although things were somewhat under control, Aaron and Mike were reluctant to begin the Wet T-Shirt Contest due to the presence of two police officers at the top of the hill.  The officers were not doing anything other than observing the developing scene.  Mike, Aaron, Dale, and Mackenzie were in the middle of the crowd with the line of voluptuous contestants for the contest, all eager to expose their assets to the world.................keep in mind, a 200 dollar prize was at stake here.  The four of them seemed clueless about what to do and reluctant to start the show.  I looked around and realized the crowd was becoming restless, so I decided to take matters into my own highly inebriated hands.  I walked up to the top of the hill to have a friendly conversation with the constables of the law.  The conversation from what I remembered went something like this....................................

Me:  "Well good evening officers!"
Cops:  "Dude, don't touch me."  (seriously, that was the first thing he said to me)
Me:  "I was just noticing you standing here and was wondering if we were operating within the jurisdiction of the law."
Cops:  "Everything seems to be relatively in order.  I smell pot, but I am not about to go down there to figure out where it is coming from."
Me:  "I know man.  Drugs are bad.  It's a shame that a few bad apples want to ruin a good time"  (the cop rolled his eyes at my comment)
Me:  "Well, here's the thing.  We were hoping to put on a show for all of these fine Dirt Bags and we have organized a group of lovely ladies ready to get topless for the enjoyment of the crowd.  We don't want to break any laws, so I, as well as my friends sponsoring the event were wondering how you felt about that idea?"

   The cop calmly looked at me and smiled, and then delivered the greatest line I have ever heard a police officer speak.

Cops:  "Why do you think we are standing here.  Start the show."

   Now, I have always bluntly spoken my mind about the police officers of this country (remember that I now live in Baltimore), but on this night my entire thought process was turned upside down.  These cops were the shit, and just like every red blooded American male, they wanted to see some titties!  I whistled down the hill to catch Mikes attention, and with a wide grin on my face I gave him two big thumbs up.  Time to start the show!!!!!!


“I don’t like tit for tat. I like tit for tit. Bring on the boobies!”
                                             ~Jarod Kintz~


   I thanked the officers for their awesomeness and then skipped down the hillside like a giddy child, so excited I could barely contain myself.  Shredder Aaron and Mackenzie took the lead so I asked Chicago Mike what I should do.  He told me to go find something that could hold water and be the man that dumps the water on the women...............ummmmmmm, yea, I can do that.  I was so happy I had abandoned my post for this job.  
   The entire contest was a blur to me.  I remember that the crowd continued to grow as it closed in tighter and tighter around us.  There must have been close to 500 people there, and the scene was complete chaos.  The noise level from the masses was deafening as horny young Dirt Bags roared and screamed as loud as they could;  "DUMP EM' OUT!!!!!"  "TITTIES!!!!!" and other various quotes that were less than appropriate for a "family friendly" environment.  Ethics and morals had been abandoned long before entering this scene of drunken scandalous debauchery.  
   In all honesty, I don't remember the titties at all, which is ironic considering I had the best view.  I was told that I preformed my job flawlessly and that the contest was actually a huge success.............minus the 200 or so pissed off campers who decided not to attend the show.  Apparently the spectacle was loud, and in the following weeks the irate messages received complaining about the event were both humorous and embarrassing at the same time.  The winner of the event received her money, however one not so lucky contestant refused to acknowledge that the contest was over, so she attempted to continue the show as people began to disperse.  I vaguely remember people telling me that contestant was a possible meth addict based on her appearance.............sounds like stripper material if you ask me!  
   The post Wet T-Shirt Contest scene was everything a festival atmosphere should be.  The band played into the night around the campfire and drunken Dirt Bags found mischievous adventures throughout the festival grounds.  Some took to the usual harassment of the Jackson clan in an attempt to piss in their boats when they weren't paying attention.  Others found a quiet spot in the woods for safety meetings and random drunken hook ups.  
   Apparently I had concocted my own booty call for the evening, however I have zero recollection of this encounter, and wasn't made aware of the story until after the festival was over.  About a week after the party I received a friend request on Facebook from a girl I didn't know.  Since I began writing The Island Chronicles I receive a lot of requests from people I have never met.  At first I denied all of them, but then I made a rule.  I would accept any request from someone who had a minimum of 50 mutual friends in the boating community.  I figured a lot of these people were members of the community and it would be a good way to meet some new boaters from different areas.  This girl qualified under that rule, so accepted the request.  Five minutes after accepting I received a series of naked pictures of her in provocative poses..............Red Flags flew high, however, my curiosity got the best of me and I sent her a message.  Here is a recount of that conversation.

Me:  "Nice pics" (which was a lie)  "Do I know you?"
Naked Chick:  "You don't remember me, do you?"
Me:  "I'm really sorry, but I have no clue who you are.  Have we boated together?"
Naked Chick:  "No!  I met you at gfest after the DBP party.  LOL"
Me:  "uuuuuuuummm.  Yea.  I was pretty blackout drunk during that shit show.  Did we hang out?"
Naked Chick:  "YES!!!  I wanted to hook up with you and told you you should come over to my tent to smoke a bowl.  I heard you were safety conscious."  
Me:  "Really?  Did we hook up?"
Naked Chick:  "NO!  You were actually a complete dick about the situation."
Me:  "uuuuuuuuum.  Sorry about that.  What did I do?"
Naked Chick:  "We walked around the festival for a few minutes and I realized you had no clue what you were doing, so I told you I was taking you to my tent before you fell over.  On the way there you stopped and asked me what was happening and then asked where your friend Phelan was.  I told you I didn't know that name and that if you played your cards right you were about to get laid.  Then you just blankly stared at me for about fifteen seconds."
Me:  "Why?......did I puke or something?"
Naked Chick:  "No!  After standing there and thinking about what to do you said you would rather find Phelan and go ring the campground bell so that you could piss off all the cops.  Then you simply turned around, walked away, and started randomly yelling the name Phelan."
Me:  "Ohh.  Sorry about that.  I don't understand.  If I was such a dick then why would you send me all those naked pictures?"
Naked Chick:  "I wanted you to see what you missed out on."  

   At this point in the conversation the crazy bells were going off and I realized that this chick was not only damaged goods, but was also stupid as shit.  I was very proud of myself for the fact that I kept my whits about me during blackout stage, because based on the pics she sent me, there was no way I would have ever hooked up with her in a sober state of mind.  Apparently my drunken state of mind was still on point enough to send a message to my dick telling it to run away, and I assume the only excuse I could come up with was to use my friend Phelan as my escape goat............so that is what I did.  
   I realized that I no longer wanted to be Facebook friends with her at this point, and needed to find a way out...........so I used blunt TRUTH.

Me:  "I didn't miss out on anything.  Your pics are not as high of quality as you think they are.........just an FYI for future reference."
Naked Chick:  "FUCK YOU!  The Island Chronicles suck anyway!"  

   Then she blocked me.  I couldn't believe how well the blunt TRUTH actually worked in that situation.  Disaster averted in real life, as well as on Facebook.  I will admit, I always paddle now with not only her face, but also her ass deeply ingrained in my memory on the small chance that I run into her while paddling a rivah...................hopefully I can paddle faster than her in case I need to make a quick escape one day.  


“I have been dating, fucking, and otherwise dealing with women as an adult for 16+ years now, and for the most part, I’ve found one rule about them to be depressingly true:  1.Hot  2.Sane  3.Single


Pick Two.”
                             ~Tucker Max~


   That quote is the fucking TRUTH and is very cleverly worded.  Unfortunately this chick only qualified under one of those rules, and being single was even questionable based on her desperation to be accepted.
   The most amazing part about the entire story was that my bull shit scapegoat wasn't actually bull shit.  It was true.  I DID find Phelan, and as I vaguely remember, we DID ring the bell.  My foggy memory of that adventure picks up sometime around arriving at the bell, and includes parts that were explained to me the next morning by those who witnessed it.  This all happened sometime well after midnight.........
   We knew the cops were not happy about the amount of people ringing the bell, so we concocted a stealth mission that had no viable plan what-so-ever.  I crept up to the bell and realized that the rope had been removed, so the only way to succeed in our mission was to shimmy up the post and hit the bell with my fist.  As I climbed the post, fully inebriated, I payed little attention to the fact that the entire post was wet and sticky and smelled funny.  I reached the top and pushed the giant piece of iron as hard as I could while Phelan (I think) posted as lookout for the cops.  As it rang I went momentarily deaf from the gong and then fell off the post..............which really fucking hurt.  In a matter of seconds a dozen cops came walking swiftly down the path as I sat on the ground at the base of the bell, stunned from the impact with the earth.  I was way too drunk and way too old to run from the police, so I made the choice to simply get up, brush myself off, and then stand there like a drunken buffoon and act as though I had done nothing wrong.  It was my only play.  The police officer slowly approached me without saying a word.............I didn't move.  I stood my ground.  It was a moment of desperation.  He got right in my face with a stone cold look on his face, still not saying a word, and just stared in my eyes.  As I remember it, his face was literally an inch away from mine.  I remember that I was doing all that I could to not bust out laughing, so I just stared right back at him.  The other officers stopped and watched the stare off that had commenced.  I couldn't figure out what he was waiting for.  I knew I was going to break first if I didn't do something, so I made my move.  I calmly looked to my right, then looked to my left.  Then I looked back in his eyes, and with the widest grin possible I pointed to my left and said, "They went that way.".......................the cop didn't budge.  He just kept staring directly into my eyes.  If I hadn't have been so fucking drunk I am sure I would have broken down, but I held my ground and simply waited................I still could not for the life of me figure out what he was waiting for.  Slowly, the officer began to back off with the same stone cold look never leaving his face, then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there wondering how the hell I wasn't going to jail............somehow, victory was mine.


“A recent police study found that you're much more likely to get shot by a fat cop if you run.”
                                                    ~Dennis Miller~


   At this point in the night I figured that I had managed to inflict enough chaos on the festival grounds and concluded that passing out was probably the best option................not to mention if I kept it up I would probably end up in jail for the night.  Summersville, West By God on Gauleyfest weekend is not the place an individual wants to spend a night in the hole.  On my walk back to my tent, I vaguely remember running into John Denver................no, not the real John Denver.  The John Denver from the first part of the "Fear and Loathing" tales.  I was so excited to see him.  He was excited as well, but not because he ran into me.  His excitement came from his own misadventure that he had been involved in for the night.  I only bring up this story because it demonstrates just how low a Dirt Bag can go at Gauleyfest.  John Denver looked at me with a gleam in his eye, and as proudly as he could stated, "Dude, I just fucked some random chick in the port-a-potty."...............I just stared at him in disbelief.  Keep in mind he was referring to the Gauleyfest port-a-potty's.  The same port-a-potty's that hundreds of Dirt Bags had been pissing, shitting, puking, and doing God only knows what else in for the last 24 hours............I just stared at him in disbelief.  Words can't even describe how proud he was of this accomplishment.  All I could do was look at him blankly with a drunken fix and meagerly muster out the word, "ewwww."  John Denver didn't care.  That's what I loved about him.  He simply didn't give a fuck, and to this day he still doesn't.  Whenever I bring it up to him he simply beams with pride.............you gotta love a man with that sort of confidence.  
   The next morning I awoke on my cot with one thing....................a massive fucking hangover.  I cannot even begin to explain how bad it was.  I had puked in the grass at some point in the night next to my cot, and somehow I had also managed to remove my pants..........at least I hope it was me that removed them.  I truly have no idea, and I never will.  I sat up, stretched, and immediately noticed a very uncomfortable burning sensation all over my neck, face, and chest.............."what the fuck happened" I thought.  I tried to walk it off, but the more I rubbed my face the more it burned.  I staggered down the hillside to the fire circle where I found the remnants of the party.  It truly looked as though a full scale war had taken place.  There was shit everywhere, and there was literally still bodies passed out around the fire, on the benches, and on the ground.  I considered checking pulses, but the burning sensation I was experiencing took precedence over everything else.
   Then I saw Shredder Aaron's rape van.  It was covered in every condiment imaginable.  Shredder Aaron really is one of the biggest jack asses I have ever met.  Uncle Mark stated it best when I first met him.  He said, "What's wrong with that kid?  Was he dropped on his head as a baby or something?"  That pretty much sums up Shredder Aaron in a nutshell.  Apparently he had once again managed to open his mouth the previous night, pissing someone off, resulting in some sneaky Dirt Bag antics by mysterious culprits.  They not only trashed his van, but they had done one hell of a quality job on it.  It was covered in ketchup, mustard, pickles, and every other available resource from the party they could find.  Of course this did not upset Aaron in the least.  He simply laughed like a dumb ass and never even bothered to clean all of it off.  A week after the party most of the remnants were still dried onto the van..................being the special ed kid must be hard. God bless that goofy ass kid, because no one else ever will.  
   I sat down and began to talk with a random group of party goers from the night before.  During the conversation one of them noticed me rubbing my neck and face and informed me that my neck was really red.  I explained that when I woke up the entire front of my body was burning and the sensation wouldn't go away.  At that moment another member of the group looked at me and asked me a very peculiar question.  "Did you happen to climb the pole and ring the bell last night?"........................"WTF?", I thought.  I immediately looked at him and said, "yea man, I did.  Why?"  He started laughing uncontrollably and then stated, "Man, I hate to tell you, but the cops sprayed the shit out of that thing with Pepper Spray!".........................MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!  That explained why the police officer simply stared me down the night before.  He was waiting for me to react to the Pepper Spray.  Apparently I was that drunk.  It didn't even phase me........now that is truly sad.  Chalk one up to the police.  Well played gentlemen.  Well played.


“Drunks fear the police, but the police are drunk too.”
                                                     ~Rumi~



   Believe it or not, this shit show is still not over.  There is quite a bit to come, including a hung over flip through Iron Ring, a final encounter with Lil' Rook, straying to a place I had no business going and with a woman I had no business communicating with, and some blunt TRUTH for DBP.  How do I always seem to find new trouble?  


“Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?”                                        ~Ernest Hemingway~  


   See ya on the rivah......................hopefully not antagonizing the police.     PEACE