2005-09-26 - 10:02 a.m.
We flew back from Wakarusa because Grubb had a wedding to go to the following weekend and it didn’t make sense for us to hang out in the middle of the country for 10 days. However we had Joel and Partridge continue on to High Sierra so we didn’t have 2 vehicles driving back and forth across the country. Although the boys had big plans to have some fun on the way, they were derailed by an uncooperative alternator on the truck. Having broke down in Grand Junction, Colorado on a Saturday evening on the weekend of the annual country jamboree (which was where every mechanic in town turned out to be) did not help matters. At least there was a golf course and of course they had the van so they were hardly stranded.
Meanwhile back on the east coast I fished nearly every day I was home, knowing I’d have precious little time to do so once we hit the road and the summer heat turned the fishing bad. I did fairly well, catching a couple of nice fish each day, whilst learning more and more. I bought a pair of light weight waders to replace my neoprene ones. The old ones were great in cold water but were like a form of medieval torture in warm weather, soaking my clothes with sweat enough to make it seem I had worn no waders at all.
I used to like to fly. Ever since 9/11 it’s been a complete drag. Thanks to a bunch of misguided hijackers looking for revenge or eternal servicing from 17 virgins (I guess they wouldn’t be virgins for long) we are all doomed to hellish flying experiences. A case study follows...
Flying a band like ours around is a challenge. Getting 6 musicians someplace at the same time, on time, is an accomplishment. It’s a bit like herding cats. Arrive we did and now the next challenge was before us. Getting all the instruments on board as carry-ons. Acoustic instruments are rather fragile and sensitive to temperature extremes. The luggage bay of an airliner is no place for a nice Martin guitar. With Andy Goessling in the band we had to get 2 guitars, a dobro, a banjo and a mandolin on as well as Todd’s Martin. We all check as much as we can and split up the instruments. Most times you get to the gate and there are mild protests from the ticket taker (or whatever you call them) but after assuring them that “We’ve done this a hundred times. If there’s not enough room in the overheads we’ll gate check them... blah, blah, yada, yada... “ on we usually go. Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the wonderful world of America West airlines. No one carrying a guitar made it past a wiry looking hispanic woman, with the demeanor of a pit bull whom I only know as “Mary” (when asked her name after lengthy, fruitless arguments she would only divulge her first, given name) who made it her life mission to deny the stowing in overheads of any guitars, or things resembling guitars. We carry a letter to the president of the musicians union from the head of the F.A.A. stating that we are allowed to check such instruments. We might as well have been waving toilet paper in front of Mary as much as she was concerned. And so after pleading and arguing and being heckled by a big burly fellow (I informed him it was not his business. He assured me it was) our worst nightmares come to pass and we are forced to check 3 guitars, a dobro and a banjo in the subzero underbelly of a Boeing 737. We fly on to our first destination, Phoenix, changing planes to Reno where we are to be picked up by Mike and Joel and ferried on to the High Sierra Music Festival. I’ve flown all over the world and never once had to check my violin, which is not very much bigger than your average carry-on bag and smaller than many. Well perhaps Mary from Newark called ahead to her counterpart in Phoenix because sure enough she pulled me aside when I handed her my boarding pass and said, “You’re going to have to check that guitar”, to which I said, “It’s not a guitar, it’s a violin”, to which she said, “I don’t care what it is, you’ll have to check it.” No amount of explanation or pleading for the life of my 100 year old antique violins seemed to chip away at her icy countenance and the best I got out of her was, “If the head stewardess says it’s ok that’s on her.” Off I went down the jetway and walked right past the stewardess whiteout a blink from her; found my seat and stowed my fiddles in the empty overhead above my seat. I sat down thinking I somehow escaped only to look up and see the woman from the gate talking to the stewardess I passed on my way in. The gate woman marched right down the aisle and said, “You’ll have to check that guitar sir.” Of course I launched into more pleading but ultimately the head stewardess, while sympathetic, was unwilling to overrule the ticket person. I asked if there was anyone else to which I could plead my case and was told “The Captain” who at that moment came out from the cockpit and said, “You’ll either have to check that thing or deplane.” By this time everyone was seated and all luggage was stowed (including my violin) but to the shock of many of my fellow passengers and my bandmates I had to go and take the violins from the overhead above my seat and in the time it would take for me to walk to the front of the plane, make a decision whether to entrust the very things that enabled me to practice my art and craft to the vagaries of the underbelly of the aircraft or get off the plane and find another way to Reno from Phoenix on Fourth of July weekend. Actually there was no decision to be made. It would do no one any good to arrive at the festival with damaged or destroyed instruments. So I surrendered to the tyranny of circumstance and uncertainty and bid my fellow bandmates farewell. The aircraft door closed behind me and I made my way up the breezeway alone except for my fiddles.
It was a strange feeling as I made my way into the terminal. The only person from America West that didn’t act like an unfeeling automaton was the woman who walked me back through the gate. She said that she would make sure the leg to Reno was credited back to us. (Alas, even this turned out to be a cruel joke as the credit amounted to allowing me to fly from Phoenix to Reno anytime in the next year! That will never happen. A pox on America West!) It should go without saying that I will never fly America West again and I urge any who are reading this to avoid this aweful airline like the plague.
My first call was to my wife. I needed to hear her voice. She couldn’t hardly believe it. She got on the computer to try to find another flight. She was not having much luck. I rang off. I called Joel to tell him what went down. He too was incredulous. I rang Martha back to find she had struck out. I was starting to entertain the idea of renting a car and driving the 900 miles to Reno. I didn’t have to be at the festival for 20 hours. I’d have to average 45 mph and go without sleep. That wasn’t really a great option but I’d do it if I had no other alternative. I placed a call to our manager Brian and when I told him I had got off the plane he said, “W-H-A-T! You got off a plane on Fourth of July weekend!” I explained I really had no choice and we got busy figuring a way out of this mess. Suddenly it came to me! I’d fly to San Francisco and rent a car and drive the 3 or so hours out to High Sierra from the Bay area. All flights to San Fran were sold out! How about Sacramento? Sold out. San Jose? Sold out. Wait. There was a couple of seats left to Oakland on Southwest. I would arrive at 11PM and rent a car. It would be tricky as the Budget desk closed at 1AM so there wouldn’t be much room for error. Well of course, to make the day complete, the flight was delayed an hour. I arrived in Oakland at 12:10AM to find out that the rental desk was a 5 mile shuttle ride off the airport grounds. When I got there the line was out the door. By the time I got to the desk it was 12:55AM! I just made it! It felt great to get behind the wheel and away from airports. Even though I went the wrong way and wound up in San Francisco, I was free! I had hoped to make my way out to Quincy but only made it as far as Sacramento before my body gave out. I’d been up for 26 hours and I needed to close my eyes. I exited and tried three hotels only to find them all booked. Finally I happen on the MacArthur Motel which turned out to be a skeevy, crack hotel. Fuck it. I lay down on the bed without pulling the covers down or even taking off my clothes and fell asleep straight off.
I woke up to yelling out in the hall. “Get the fuck over here girl! Where the fuck you think you goin’?” I glanced at the clock. 8AM. I got up and took a brief shower, trying to levitate so as not to touch the tub bottom. I put the same clothes back on. All I had was my fiddles and my laptop. The fools at America West had transported my luggage to Reno. I’m sure the F.A.A. would find that highly unusual. In hindsight I might have insisted the take my luggage off the plane and I could have said, “Look at all the trouble you’re causing just to remove a couple of harmless violins that were stowed away already anyway.” On second thought, it probably wouldn’t have made a shit of difference to those assholes!
I decided to take Rt. 49 up from Nevada City. Wow! What a treat. It was such a beautiful ride it nearly made the whole ordeal worth it! On the way I passed trough the most amazing mountain town called Downieville. It was right out of a movie! I'd love to go back and spend some time there with my wife. I made it up to High Sierra by noon. After our set I got to see one of my heroes, Bill Frisell. I have most of his records but had never seen him. There truly is no one who sounds like him. He was great and he had Greg Leisz playing lap steel with him for an added treat. I had him sign my t-shirt afterwards.
We shared the Sunday late night with our friends the Hot Buttered Rum String Band. They asked me to sit in on the third song. As I was waiting in the hall behind the stage my friend Kim ran up and gave me a big hug. As she did I felt a liquid pour down my back. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal but I was wearing a very expensive shirt my wife had given me before I left. I looked at her and said, “Please tell me that wasn’t red wine.” She just shook her head up and down with her hand over her mouth. Well let’s just say I freaked out. Mind you, this was all happening as the Hot Buttered boys were half way through their 2nd song. Grubb was sitting there and he said, “Give it to me and I’ll clean it. Don’t worry. I’ll get it out.” Partridge gave me a long sleeve t-shirt and just as I slipped it on I got the call to hit the stage. When I was done and things had cooled down I went to find Kim and apologize to her for freaking out but she was nowhere to be found. Grubb had done a great job getting the wine off the back of the shirt. It was drenched from shoulder to tail but when he was done with it you simply couldn’t tell. Thanks Grubb! Sorry Kim! Our set went well. We wailed till 3AM.
So that was my High Sierra experience. It wasn’t my favorite High Sierra but it sure wasn’t dull!
