It’s a hot, early evening at FloydFest, the storied independently-run music festival held each July in the backwoods of rural Virginia. With live music radiating from stages positioned in seemingly every direction, indie-rockers The Nude Party finish its set to the deafening roar of the jubilant crowd begging for just one more tune before dispersing into the next melodic adventure. 

Hello from the passenger seat of my Toyota Tacoma. Seeing as my deadline for this week’s column was nearing midnight on Sunday, I decided to pull over at the nearest exit and let my girlfriend, Sarah, take over driving duties. Pop open the laptop and off we go, eh? 

It’s 2:54 a.m. in the rural backwoods of Virginia and Vince Herman hands me a shot of high-end tequila. With his trademark Cheshire Cat grin, Herman then pours himself a shot, soon raising it high into the air in honor of another incendiary performance. 

Tapping my smart phone, it lights up and indicates that it’s now 2:34 a.m. Saturday. Sitting on my tailgate in the depths of the FloydFest camping woods, I’m sharing the vehicular platform with my new friend, June. It’s dark, with the only light coming from an illuminated dirt road on the other side of the tree line and the red glow at the end of the joint June just sparked up.

With my feet dangling out of the back window of the truck, a cool morning breeze rolled through the Tacoma and woke me up. The first thing I saw was the silent pond below the vehicle, a handful of small tents situated around the body of water.