We had another band performance this weekend. This time we were down in Salida, about 100 miles south down 285. The town of Salida is a beautiful little artists’ community. With the Rockies as a backdrop, mineral hot springs in abundance and the Arkansas River providing a natural playground, it’s been a popular resort destination for many decades. The event was the 51st annual FIBArk Whitewater festival, and we were to be part of the big parade.
The Arkansas River Valley is yet another part of this beautiful state I have still to visit. I’d heard how attractive it was and Dear Wife has been down a couple of times visiting friends, but this was to be my first trip. I wasn’t entirely sure how long to allow for the journey as I’d heard the cops down that way were even more aggressive towards speeders than our own beloved tax collectors in Park County. Not only that, the drive up from town the previous night had been quite an adventure due to the fog which made driving something of an exercise in memory and telepathy. The rain, which had been more or less constant in the latter part of the week, was forecast to continue all weekend and sure enough, the storm clouds were hovering ominously as we set off.
As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The clouds were soon left behind and other than a handful of artificial looking cotton wool jobs, didn’t make an appearance until much later in the day. In fact, we drove with the windows down the entire way and reveled in the cool air blowing away the cobwebs. And what a spectacular drive it was too. From the ruler straight plains of South Park (yes, it’s the famous South Park, but for the record, the obscenity ridden TV Show was apparently based on the town of Conifer, much closer to Denver) to the meandering trail through acres of rolling farmland, each vista was spectacular.
Before settling on Denver, we spent several years exploring the American West, looking for a place to call home. We didn’t have a clear idea what we were looking for other than that we were tired of the desert with its palate of pale brown and washed out green. Visiting Colorado in midsummer, we were struck by the greenness of it all and this was one of the many factors which caused us to fall in love with the place. Even though I’ve been living here for over two years now, this drive reminded me once again what beauty there is in rural farmland, green pastures and groves of lush looking trees. Working as I do, in downtown Denver it’s not really practical for me to live any further out than I do. That said there were half a dozen places I would have been happy to rest my weary bones before we’d even covered half the distance.
The FIBArk Festival, as I’m sure you’re itching to know, stands for “First In Boating on the Arkansas”. (No, I would never have figured it out either). It’s a series of boat races down a 56 mile stretch of the river from Salida to Canon City through the famous Royal Gorge. The event began with a canoe race in 1949; a bet between two friends. Word of the challenge spread from mouth to mouth, generating such interest that a parade and a festival were organized. 23 entrants in all chose to take part in the contest including two Swiss boys who had heard of the race while visiting the country. Their boats were small folding affairs yet that first year; they were the only ones to reach the finish line. Nowadays, boaters come from all over the world to run the Arkansas during FIBArk and this year saw entries from France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Scotland and Israel among others.
Fortunately, we weren’t being asked to take part in anything quite so adventurous. All we had to do was march down Main Street while playing a handful of tunes even I know comparatively well. That said, with fifteen minutes to show time, my heart was beating as fast as any of the river runners because at that time, I was the only drummer in attendance. I have quite a bit more experience than the last time I was in this situation, when I marked my third ever public appearance with a solo performance in one of the local bars except this time, I would be expected not only to set the tempo for the entire band, but to remember how to play the tunes while marching at the same time. I’m told a green complexion doesn’t suit me.
To my immense relief, one of the tenors and two other snare drummers appeared with minutes to spare. Pam, the tenor drummer has experience with the bass, and as that was decreed to be more important for a parade, soon found herself on the receiving end of a field promotion and underneath a very large, very heavy drum. It was a warm day for her to be lugging that thing around but that wasn’t my problem. The pressure was off and I could begin to enjoy myself.
Most people seem to enjoy pipe bands and the crowd here was most appreciative, bursting into rapturous applause each time we halted. This was exceptionally good for the ego, even though I was aware they simply didn’t realize how badly I was playing. As it happened, we learned later that the friends, whom Dear Wife has visited, were following us down the street, stopping when we did and encouraging the other spectators by clapping and cheering as loud as they could.
The whole thing was such fun I was quite disappointed when we reached the end of the route only about twenty minutes after we’d started. We’d been advised the parade would take between one to one and a half hours to complete but I suspect this referred to the time between the first and the last entrants as I doubt we marched more than about half a mile. In fact, the whole thing was over so early, the bars weren’t even open by the time we were done.
It was a long way to go for such a short performance but even so, I’ve no complaints. After a week cooped up in the office, I can think of worse ways to pass a Saturday morning that strolling down Salida Main Street while banging a drum.
The Arkansas River Valley is yet another part of this beautiful state I have still to visit. I’d heard how attractive it was and Dear Wife has been down a couple of times visiting friends, but this was to be my first trip. I wasn’t entirely sure how long to allow for the journey as I’d heard the cops down that way were even more aggressive towards speeders than our own beloved tax collectors in Park County. Not only that, the drive up from town the previous night had been quite an adventure due to the fog which made driving something of an exercise in memory and telepathy. The rain, which had been more or less constant in the latter part of the week, was forecast to continue all weekend and sure enough, the storm clouds were hovering ominously as we set off.
As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The clouds were soon left behind and other than a handful of artificial looking cotton wool jobs, didn’t make an appearance until much later in the day. In fact, we drove with the windows down the entire way and reveled in the cool air blowing away the cobwebs. And what a spectacular drive it was too. From the ruler straight plains of South Park (yes, it’s the famous South Park, but for the record, the obscenity ridden TV Show was apparently based on the town of Conifer, much closer to Denver) to the meandering trail through acres of rolling farmland, each vista was spectacular.
Before settling on Denver, we spent several years exploring the American West, looking for a place to call home. We didn’t have a clear idea what we were looking for other than that we were tired of the desert with its palate of pale brown and washed out green. Visiting Colorado in midsummer, we were struck by the greenness of it all and this was one of the many factors which caused us to fall in love with the place. Even though I’ve been living here for over two years now, this drive reminded me once again what beauty there is in rural farmland, green pastures and groves of lush looking trees. Working as I do, in downtown Denver it’s not really practical for me to live any further out than I do. That said there were half a dozen places I would have been happy to rest my weary bones before we’d even covered half the distance.
The FIBArk Festival, as I’m sure you’re itching to know, stands for “First In Boating on the Arkansas”. (No, I would never have figured it out either). It’s a series of boat races down a 56 mile stretch of the river from Salida to Canon City through the famous Royal Gorge. The event began with a canoe race in 1949; a bet between two friends. Word of the challenge spread from mouth to mouth, generating such interest that a parade and a festival were organized. 23 entrants in all chose to take part in the contest including two Swiss boys who had heard of the race while visiting the country. Their boats were small folding affairs yet that first year; they were the only ones to reach the finish line. Nowadays, boaters come from all over the world to run the Arkansas during FIBArk and this year saw entries from France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Scotland and Israel among others.
Fortunately, we weren’t being asked to take part in anything quite so adventurous. All we had to do was march down Main Street while playing a handful of tunes even I know comparatively well. That said, with fifteen minutes to show time, my heart was beating as fast as any of the river runners because at that time, I was the only drummer in attendance. I have quite a bit more experience than the last time I was in this situation, when I marked my third ever public appearance with a solo performance in one of the local bars except this time, I would be expected not only to set the tempo for the entire band, but to remember how to play the tunes while marching at the same time. I’m told a green complexion doesn’t suit me.
To my immense relief, one of the tenors and two other snare drummers appeared with minutes to spare. Pam, the tenor drummer has experience with the bass, and as that was decreed to be more important for a parade, soon found herself on the receiving end of a field promotion and underneath a very large, very heavy drum. It was a warm day for her to be lugging that thing around but that wasn’t my problem. The pressure was off and I could begin to enjoy myself.
Most people seem to enjoy pipe bands and the crowd here was most appreciative, bursting into rapturous applause each time we halted. This was exceptionally good for the ego, even though I was aware they simply didn’t realize how badly I was playing. As it happened, we learned later that the friends, whom Dear Wife has visited, were following us down the street, stopping when we did and encouraging the other spectators by clapping and cheering as loud as they could.
The whole thing was such fun I was quite disappointed when we reached the end of the route only about twenty minutes after we’d started. We’d been advised the parade would take between one to one and a half hours to complete but I suspect this referred to the time between the first and the last entrants as I doubt we marched more than about half a mile. In fact, the whole thing was over so early, the bars weren’t even open by the time we were done.
It was a long way to go for such a short performance but even so, I’ve no complaints. After a week cooped up in the office, I can think of worse ways to pass a Saturday morning that strolling down Salida Main Street while banging a drum.
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