link: http://www.wvtf.org/news_and_notes/index.php

mp3: http://www.wvtf.org/news_and_notes/audio/201001060941190.festivalphotogs.mp3

The AFP is kicking off 2010 with the biggest party of the year…so far!  Please join us in Charlottesville Friday January 8th for the opening night of the American Festivals Project print exhibit.  A selection of our finest images will be on display including plenty of print surprises.  There will be lots of food and wine, so bring a dish if you can, come hungry, and come ready to party.

What: American Festivals Project exhibit opening!
Where: The Bridge | Progressive Arts Initiative, 209 Monticello Rd, Charlottesville, Va 22902
When: Friday January 8th, 5:30pm-10:30pm
Food and Wine: We’re supplying the wine (lots of it).  If you can bring an appetizer dish of some kind it would be greatly appreciated!

We hope to see all of you there.  Please bring any friends or family you’d like.  Prints will also be available for sale at the show.  If you can’t make the show or are just interested in seeing what prints are available for sale, please see this link for our list of images for purchase:  http://www.photoshelter.com/c/banjowen/gallery/AFP-Print-Sale/G0000wLcigSu9VLI

Thanks to everyone’s incredible support throughout the year.  Come celebrate with us!

-Andrew and Ross

Quickly, and almost imperceptibly to most of the town of Charlottesville, it came and went.  There were a few flyers here and there and it was announced on the Paramount marquee, but on each it said USPDF.  And what common pedestrian is expected to know what USPDF stands for?  Would you have guessed US Pole Dancing Federation?

I don’t even remember how I heard about it. But I wasn’t planning on being in Charlottesville on October 4th. The plan was to be on a boat relaxing. This wasn’t something the AFP could pass up though, especially since it was in our hometown theater. Ross was leaving for Israel the next day, so, alas, I would have to go this one alone. As you can imagine there was some resistance to a young male photographer asking for behind the scenes access to a pole dancing competition. I called ahead and explained the concept of the AFP to the governing body and event host the USPDF, and thankfully was able to convince them of my purely photographic intentions. I was working on a hunch that this could be a great event for the AFP and I think I was right. With my audio recorder, I interviewed the competitors and tried to capture some of the sounds backstage to pair with the images.

US Pole Dancing East Coast Regionals from American Festivals Project on Vimeo.

I don’t think the blog post here needs to be extensive on the analysis. The women speaking in the video do a pretty excellent job of sharing the way they see it. But it’s a fine line between women who perform on the pole as strippers and the women who perform as artists and competitors. To the casual observer, the difference is negligible. It’s erotic, it’s high heels and tiny outfits, it’s women climbing on a pole. But when you actually watch one of these events, you can begin to tell that these women are pursuing something far beyond the agenda of the late night club girls. Yes, it’s sexy but all the underpinnings of Sport are there…extensive training, athleticism, team bonding, competition… As I see it though, there are 2 major flaws in pole dancing that will challenge it’s ability to be accepted as a legit sport. The first is that it’s in the dark.   Keep the house lights on and nobody’s going to get the same sexy vibe as when it’s dark. It’ll look more like a gymnastics routine. The second flaw is the argument that pole dancing should be accepted and embraced for its ability to empower women to feel confident and sexy.  Which then begs the question, should women’s feeling of self-confidence and self-empowerment be rooted in the pursuit of feeling sexy? Does wanting to feel sexy, or wanting to be sexy, subordinate women and reinforce an overarching patriarchal culture where the male gaze calls the shots? If the art of the striptease was born out of women seducing men, does pole dancing, even in its most athletic form, sever those ancient ties? Judging from the event I saw in October and my interviews with the competitors, I would say not quite. Seduction was a pervasive element in the choreography of each performance. And that’s probably exactly the point.  Pole Dancing isn’t pure sport.  It isn’t field hockey, or swimming, or gymnastics.  And women do want to feel sexy and attractive, just as men want to feel the same way.  That’s not because of Cosmo or Maxim magazine, it’s because we’re hard-wired to think about sex; we’re pre-built with an overwhelming evolutionary agenda to seek out those who can help us make more copies of ourselves. So take it for what you will.  But no matter your position, you can’t argue the skill and strength involved.  It’s simply astounding.

The next time you get into your car, grab the steering wheel and give a good look at the speedometer.  Let your eyes travel up from zero, climbing double digit numbers that are so familiar.  But keep going.  Don’t stop at 80.  Don’t stop at 90 or 100.  Notice if your palms are getting sweaty or if you start to twitch in your seat.  Is this unfamiliar territory…staring at the notch for 120 or 140mph?  Think to yourself, what is the fastest I have ever driven this vehicle?  Scale your eyes back to the fastest you’ve ever pushed that needle, and then think about that brief  exhilirating moment, as quick as it may have been.  Ask yourself why didn’t you go faster than that?  How long did you sustain that top speed?  Why didn’t you drive further?  Now, if I told you there’s a place as flat as a sheet of college-ruled paper, where there are no cops, no traffic signals, no turns, no intersections, no on-coming traffic, and no speed-limit, would you push that accelerator as far as it could go for as long as you could?  Of course you would.  And that could only mean you were in one special place–the Bonneville Salt Flats in western Utah.

Utah is known for radical religious piety.  And the shores of the Great Salt Lake seem to be where there’s the best action.  To the east, there’s Salt Lake City, the Mormon temple, and one out of every two persons who believe in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  To the west, on the ancient western shore of Lake Bonneville, where the briny water has totally evaporated, there’s another kind of fantacism, another object of devotion, where 1 out of every 1 persons is a believer.  Service doesn’t meet every week, and not everyone follows the same scriptures.  But they share the same faith; faith in the divinity of…Speed!  For the past 61 years they’ve all been coming here to this sacred house of worship where the ground is as white as the clouds of heaven to push their earthly extremes in pursuit of the holy.

The world land speed record is exactly as it sounds: the record for the fastest achievement by any wheeled vehicle on land.  The current record holder is a 47yr old British navy pilot named Andy Green, who achieved supersonic speed of 763mph in Utah in 1997, and who is now working on breaking the 1,000mph barrier.  Speedweek, however, is not when Andy Green and his ultra-rare competition push speeds that top the sound barrier.  We got a tip that the land speed record attempts happen privately, on a date later in the summer.  Instead, Speedweek is the annual gathering of the tribe, where speed devotees make an annual pilgrimage to the fastest racetrack in the world and put their best effort against history.  There is no head-to-head racing, there is no stopwatch.  (There is also no best costume award or recognition for cheapest looking girlfriend.)  Drivers are racing against history–the historical speed precedent set for that engine class.  The attention is purely on getting the cars to run at top speed.  Everything else is secondary.  If Sturgis left us short on horsepower, we found all the RPM’s we could handle in the desolate, otherworldly, evaporated ruins of the Great Salt Lake Basin.

Andrew begins sewing on the AFP portable studio backdrop made of 2×4′s, oversized bed sheets, and rope.

Our first model in the studio, Joshua Burke and his modified RX-7 purple dragon

We quickly abandoned the studio backdrop for obvious reasons.

The intensity of the ultraviolet rays reflecting off the ground is so intense that the AFP broke out in an itchy rash type of sun poisoning called Polymorphic Light Eruption.

There are three courses at Bonneville: the long-course, the short-course, and the special course.  Each of them are essentially a straight line marked by black paint.  The long-course is for the fastest of the entrants with 5 miles of speed guns and 3 official miles of room to slow down and turn out.  The short course and special course only track speeds for the first 3 miles so this is the more common course for motorcycles and cars not trying to break records.  For each, there is one starting line and no preset order to lineup, it’s a first come first served system and the wait is usually an hour or more.  This is where spectators can get up close to the cars and if there is a social scene during the day, this is the closest thing to it.  But the mood and vibe around the starting line is respectful, even subdued.  Certainly, the heat and extreme sunlight reflecting off the white ground has everyone rationing their energy output.  More to the point though, there is a shared understanding for the danger of each ride and the potential for a fatal crash or engine blowing incident that would erase everything.  With an invisible gust of wind, a sticky spot in the salt, an improper mix of fuel and air, or any other unforeseen variable, so much can go wrong in a hurry.  Towards 6pm on our second day at Bonneville, a 46yr old driver from California, who was sitting in for his dad, passed the 5mile marker and then unexpectantly began cartwheeling down the track.  When all the pieces finally fell to the ground, it looked like a bomb had exploded under the chassis.  There’s a photograph and story in the Salt Lake Tribue.  The photo below is what we saw when we arrived on the scene.  It was the only photograph we got before we were run out under some very tense circumstances.  The driver was reported dead on the way to the hospital, though it’s unlikely he survived the crash.

Death is not a common outcome for any of the festivals and competitions the AFP has covered.  Injuries yes, but fatalities no.  Buckraoos get bucked, gymnasts sprain a wrist, snake catchers get bit, hipsters get too drunk, lumberjacks get splinters, breyerfans get hysterical, but that’s been the extent of it so far.  Perhaps this is the reason Speedweek felt the least like a party.  To be sure, the scene is loose and there’s plenty of good times coming out of Bonneville.  But there is a precision and underlying focus on exactitude that dominates the culture of the salt flats racing.  Bonneville is a break from all the other distractions.  It’s a time to concentrate purely on your car.  It’s a week of adjusting and studying and listening and head-scratching and readjusting and trying again and again.  There is an internal discipline that seems self govern and regulate the pulse of Speedweek.  There is too much at stake to goof around and be bothered by corporate giveaway parties and mid-day raffles.  Think of Bonneville more as a mad scientist laboratory and Speedweek as less of a festival and more of a rite of passage.  It is a place where there is no finish in sight.  A place for endless tinkering and trial. And ultimately a place where limits are set only by the failure of imagination.

Speedweek was one of the most far-out events we experienced in our year on the road.  Many thanks to Catherine Dee who tipped us off to this awesome event and offered the extra bed in Wendover.  Thanks to Josh Burke for giving us the inside scoop on Bonneville history and letting the AFP tag along in the push vehicle.  Thanks also to the Dripps team from Cville for welcoming us into their operation.  We also owe a big thanks to all the drivers who let us photograph them at the end of their race, against the saltscape background, as they waited for the push vehicles to chase them down and haul them back so they could do it all over again.

Charlottesville’s fastest faculty!

Bonneville Speed Week from American Festivals Project on Vimeo.

South Dakota is not a heavily populated state.  In fact, it’s one of the least populous states in the union, ranking 46 out of 51 (including Washington DC).  The biggest city in South Dakota is Sioux Falls, which at 155,000 persons ranks 150th on the list of biggest cities in the USA (this is 54x smaller than #1 NYC).  But there are a lot of people in this country that love motorcycles, and every first week of August a whole heck of a lot them ride out to the land of Mt. Rushmore and George Custer to gawk, strut, rev, ride, and revel.  In 2000, the attendance of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally was so large that it equaled roughly the size of the 15th largest US city, Austin, TX (twice the size of Minneapolis, MN for perspective) with 754,844 persons.  For 2009, the numbers wouldn’t be quite so high, although lewd t-shirt sales were probably at an all-time best as this year marked the 69th anniversary of the Black Hills Rally.  If there’s one thing a journalist needs when heading into Sturgis, it’s a sense of humor.  And while the AFP was not prepared for the likes of Sturgis, by the end, we were pretty sure that Sturgis was one of the silliest gatherings we could possibly have attended.

Don’t worry, the silly aspect was a shock to us too.  Especially after we tried crashing the Hells Angels summer reunion ride the week before in Duluth, MN and were basically told we’d get our lights knocked out if we didn’t scram.  “We don’t come to your family reunions and take pictures of your girlfriends” was one of the more amicable responses we got in Duluth.  It’s exactly that rebel spirit and outlaw culture that seems so quintessentially American that we wanted to photograph and capture.  If America stands for anything it’s freedom, and nothing embodies the symbol of American freedom quite like a motorcycle being ridden across the open prairie by a wind-hardened, leather-skinned, gristle-faced working class dude.  Bikers are our modern-day cowboys.  In an era where the horse has been replaced by the combustion engine, these are the people who ride in the saddle, wear leather chaps, feel the air against their face, and sacrifice comfort and expediency for the pursuit of a more wholesome and pure experience.  Picture the alternative: an overworked disheveled computer programmer zoned out in iPod land squeezed into a packed-to-the-gills rush-hour subway train.  That’s not an image likely to be adopted to symbolize a country that values courage, fortitude, patriotism, liberty, and freedom.  For better or for worse, rebel archetypes in America are still an important part of our national identity.

But it’s hard being a rebel all the time.  The yard needs mowing.  The kids need a ride back and forth from soccer, tennis, football, ballet, french lessons, therapy, and sleepovers.  The 9-5 grind wears you out so bad that you’re too tired to get much done on the weekend.  Car payments.  House payments.  Insurance payments.  Where can a person go to cut loose from all these obligations and really let their hair down?  What kind of place will finally let a person go wild?

Enter Sturgis. It’s basically anything goes for two solid weeks in Sturgis around the time of the rally.  All the beer, boobs, butts, brats, bros, and bacchanalia you can handle.  It’s Easy Rider by day and Mad Max by night.  Ride hard. Party hard.  It’s where weekend warriors come to recharge their batteries for a full solid year.  And it’s living proof that America still has some of that old stock left in it, that frontier DNA is still churning.

Or you could hang around a few days and come around to the inevitable but sad conclusion that Sturgis is, for the most part, a giant costume party.  And the theme every year, again and again, is “rebel outlaw.”  So don’t even bother to walk out your tent flap or hotel lobby unless some part of your body is adorned with black leather, a skull on flames, an eagle, a Harley logo, a cross, barbed wire, the words “freedom” or “hell” written somewhere.  And of course, bear all your tattoos.  Make sure your shirt doesn’t have sleeves.  Don’t be bashful about showing off chest hair.  Sunglasses are a must.  Jeans are encouraged.  Jeans with black leather chaps over them are celebrated.  And some kind of hat or bandanna is totally accepted.  If you don’t have any, not to worry, there are about 4,127 different t-shirt and vendor stands happily standing by ready to sell you all of your regalia needs.

Discoveries are good.  Epiphanies are better.  And the only way we could stick it out in Sturgis was to accept that we had been duped.  We had shown up to photograph something pure and found it absolutely watered down and generic and commercialized.  But we were just as guilty as our fellow costumers in seeking out that classic American archetype.  We were in pursuit of exactly the kind of thing that everyone else was there to find.  Everyone wanted to rub elbows with the ghosts of freedom: physical, moral, aesthetic, and even emotional liberation.  That Bud Light, Harley Davidson, State Farm, Pepsi, Jack Daniels, Aerosmith, and a huge economic engine was there to facilitate the entire operation only reinforced how distant we are from our rebel forebears.  And with that epiphany we saw Sturgis for what it was and photographed it as it should be photographed…as a humorous and funny and outlandish anomaly.  So enjoy the pictures.  They aren’t in our normal style.  If there’s one photographer who excels in these situations it is British photographer Martin Parr and he was an inspiration for sure.

Lastly, it should be said that everything written above is a generalization.  This was our main take-away from the event–our overall impression.  We know for sure that not everyone who attended Sturgis fits this characterization.  The Hells Angels do go to Sturgis every year.  The Bandidos too.  And for plenty, riding motorcycles is an everyday affair and even a major social influence on their lives.  In particular, we spent the better part of our last day with the Royal Ras from Albuquerque, NM, a rastafarian motorcycle club.  We followed behind them on the way to Mt. Rushmore and hung out with them in their hotel room.  We wanted to meet and ride with a club and break away from the pageantry of the main strip.  They were newcomers to Sturgis just like we were.  Where we had come to Sturgis seeking out an American subculture, they had come to purely for their love of riding motorcycles.  It reminded us of the true reason why hundreds of thousandths of riders descend on Sturgis every year.  Despite the costume party, may Sturgis live long, and live hard. Many thanks to the guys and gal from Royal Ras for sharing their time and insights with us.

Buzz, whack, chop, crack, splash, gasp, cheers, YO-HO!  These were the sounds rising from grandstand of the World Lumberjack Championships in Hayward, WI where athletes from the US, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and China squared off in some of the burliest competitions the AFP has yet to witness.  It still is undetermined how much wood a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.  But if you’re a swarthy axeman from New Zealand with hands like catcher’s mitts, then you can chuck a heck of a lot of wood in just a few swings.  And take home some decent prize money to boot.  For a few top competitors, a major percentage of their income comes from these lumberjack “shows.”  But for most of the athletes competing, the games are about honoring a family tradition, excelling as an athlete, and remembering a past time that has moved on or been replaced by machines.

This year marked the 50th anniversary of the Lumberjack Championships, all of them hosted in Hayward at the site of the old holding pond for Weyerhaeuser’s North Wisconsin Lumber Company.  On a small finger of Lake Hayward that used to hold thousands of board feet ready to be stripped, ripped, and planed, is now the “Lumberjack Bowl” where 12,000 spectators annually flood in over 3 days to see the world’s best in log rolling, boom running, pole climbing, the under hand chop, the single buck, the double buck, the standing chop block, and the springboard.  Basically, if you can think of a way to cut, climb, or cross a piece of wood, then it’s an official event here at the Lumberjack Championships.  But don’t mistake these lumberjack competitions as anything less than athleticism at its highest level.  Truly.  Yes, there’s pure brawn. But anyone who fails to see the endurance and exquisite precision exhibited in each event, is missing out on the best of these games.

Imagine the fatigue you might feel swinging a 20lbs axe as hard as you can for 3 straight minutes into a 21 inch diameter log landing the blade each time exactly on a thin line you’ve sketched out across the grain before the start.  Or imagine sprinting 100 yards in 15 seconds across tree trunks that spin and bob underneath your every step because they’re floating in water.  Or better yet, try to pretend you can even begin to race up a 9 story tapered pole and make a “controlled” free fall back to the base in 13 seconds with nothing but a rope and a cleat on each shoe.  An out of control elevator couldn’t even make that run.

So it was no surprise when we discovered that these “lumberjacks” aren’t in fact bearded and plaid-shirted woodsmen, but actually athletes who practice and train year round.  For Jason Wyngrad, the swarthy New Zealander and 11-time All-Around World Champion (including 2009), his axe blades stay sharp year round as he and his wife slice into timber as workout training.  Sisters Katie and Abby Hoeschler moved to Hayward this summer from La Crosse, WI to focus solely on training to be the best in women’s logrolling (Katie won this year).  And Brian Bartow, the world’s fastest pole climber, wears Hawaiian shorts, hails from Portland, Oregon, and travels as far as China to compete and perform.

Huh…China?  Why are there lumberjack shows in China?  (Well, because of “Crazy Bob” of course…but more on that in a second).  As it turns out the Chinese love the idea of the lumberjack, the quintessential bold American, that intrepid and independent frontiersman who cut and carved a life out of an uncharted and untamed wilderness.  In Guangzho, in particular, thousands show up to lumberjack shows to see the spectacle of the wild American in sleeveless plaid and ball cap, cranking on the starter of a deafining speed saw and buzzing through logs of yellow pine with the muscular control and indomitability only possessed by someone spawned from a land unoccupied, free, and dangerous.  It’s a show of course; an exaggeration of an outdated archetype.  And it’s a show that has made “Crazy Bob” a wonderfully humorous transport from Ft. Lauderdale, into a provincial celebrity over there (and soap opera priest on call!)

Yet, the lumberjack shows in Guangzho seem to fit as the perfect foil to the actual competitions we saw in Hayward, where celebrity is minimal, the competition is fierce, where plaid is obsolete, and the fried cheese curds are actually a dietary staple.  Crazy Bob was in Hayward, mainly, to be with his father (age 83) to logroll and compete in fun against the man who introduced him to the games.  In Hayward, there is an undeniable revery for the tradition of lumberjacking and the axemen, woodsmen, and lumberjacks who made a life in the woods and passed their skill, technique, and appreciation for athletic excellence down the family line.  Unfortunately, there may not be another 50 years of lumberjack championships left as the future of the sport and its history grows increasingly distant.  Nevertheless, these are athletes of the highest caliber and the AFP would love to see the skill and integrity demonstrated, if not the actual championships, live on in perpetuity.

2009 World Lumberjack Competition from American Festivals Project on Vimeo.

Fishing.  Who doesn’t like it?  Grab a 6-pack and some worms.  Bait your line, cast, and wait for a hit.  Soak up some sun.  Chew the fat with your buddy.  If you want to tangle with monsters of the deep, turn on the Discovery Channel and kick up your feet.

Or go to Oklahoma.  In the Sooner State, they’ve got catfish the size of fifth graders sleeping in holes in the muddy river banks.  And what better way to pull one out than with your bare forearm?  Leave the reel and rod at home because “bait and tackle” means something totally different here.  Call it handfishing, grabbling, graveling, hogging, dogging, gurgling, tickling, or stumping.  But in Oklahoma they call it noodling and consider it a tradition and way of life they are proud to carry on.  Every year for the past decade they’ve been celebrating this unique fishing technique outside Bob’s Pig Shop in Paul’s Valley, OK.  The AFP was there to take it all in.

In fact, we wanted to experience noodlin’ first hand.  So before we arrived to Paul’s Valley for what might be considered a kind of “Redneck Oscars”, we drove a few hours east to meet up with Chase, David, and Austin on a lower tributary off Eufala Lake.  It wasn’t a very dramatic scene when we finally found their location.  Three men up to their armpits in dark lake water slowly moving in sync fifteen yards off the bank. But there was a silent tension with every step.  At any moment,  we might discover a 65 pound flathead strong enough to pull a man under and drown him in a fight of man vs. acquabeast.   Noodling alone is a big no-no.  And not just because you could grapple with a catfish strong enough to pull you under and never let go, but because catfish aren’t the only creatures living in those holes.  Muskrats, beavers, snakes, and snapping turtles are often the 2nd tenants of former catfish holes and they can do some serious damage to a man’s arm as well.  Catfish don’t really have teeth, so even though they can scrape you up, they can’t bite off your fingers they way a beaver could.

But all of our 2 hours of seeking was for naught.  The water had become so warm during the latest heat wave that the heavy oxygen-rich cold water had sunk towards the bottom and forced the fish to spend most their time in lower depths; depths impossible to reach for noodling unless you were prepared with scuba gear (which is a legal category at the Okie Noodlin’ Fest).  Still, we learned the strategies of noodling (sort of).  The basic premise is to feel for catfish holes with your feet.  These holes might be under rocks, ledges, or just in a steep embankment.  During nesting season, female catfish will carve out a nice size hole or clean up a pre-existing den and lay her eggs.  But because females will sometimes eat their hatchlings, the smaller male catfish will often chase females out of holes in order to protect and defend the eggs.  When a hairy tattooed forearm threatens the nest, they latch down with an aggressive toothless bite.  And when the fish lose, they end up on the grill or in a tank in the back of a pickup truck bound for Bob’s Pig Shop.

Having not yet seen a catfish, we hurried to Bob’s.  The festival is actually a 24-hour competition and the deadline for turning in your catch was 7pm.  It was 5pm and we were making good time, but 30 miles away from Paul’s Valley, the Dodge began belching out black smoke and sputtering.  We couldn’t accelerate faster than 50mph or go more than 8 miles at time without having to stop and let the truck rest.  On the side of the road, we were passed by pickups splashing water out of massive tanks carrying their prize fish. But in short intervals, we finally arrived with enough time to catch the last of the bulk of the weigh-ins.  This one neighborhood street intersection was pandemonium.  Fish gawkers “ooohed” and “awed” as a new truck in the procession of entrants unveiled their biggest catch.  Then the fish were weighed and either went back to their owner’s tanks, or were stored in one of the official tanks, including what might be called the “noodle simulator.”

We had the opportunity to interview the crew that delivered the biggest fish of the festival and Andrew even got to pick up the 65lbs winner.  This fish was caught using Scuba gear and purportedly (like all the fish) caught in the 24 hr time period.  But there’s some speculation on how closely people follow the rules.  One local told us she thought the catfish didn’t look fresh, like they had been caught months ago and had been fed up until tournament time, getting fatter in captivity.  There’s no way to enforce the 24hr rule or the noodling rule other than asking people to honor the honor system.  Given the natural wild streak of people who wrestle catfish bigger than than border collies, there’s a good chance these folks break a rule or two from time to time.

In the end, we didn’t get the ultimate shot we wanted…a massive flapping flathead glued to a grimacing man emerging from the water’s surface.  But then again, maybe we came pretty close.  Andrew’s definitely struggling  to hold onto the lower lip of the prize winner 1/3 his body weight.  Once you “get bit” they say you’ll never go back to your reel and tackle box again.

Okie Noodling Festival from American Festivals Project on Vimeo.

The energy in the parking lot of the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington this weekend wasn’t just palpable, it was written all over the cars and trucks parked next to us: “I’ve been counting down for 168 Days…”; “Happy Birthday Breyer!”; “If you can’t cure the obsession, FEED IT!!”; “Breyerfest or Bust!!”

Our enthusiasm for plastic model horses was substantially more subdued, however.  We had been told the night before, as we drove through Missouri, we weren’t welcome at the 20th Breyerfest Birthday Bash.  The company who organizes and runs the event, Breyer, wasn’t interested in being associated with our project and the small festivals we’ve previously documented.  The crux of issue was that the AFP declares it is “in search of America’s small, hidden, and bizarre festivals.”  And Breyer doesn’t want to be considered “small,” “hidden,” or “bizarre.”  Nor did they want virtual company with the Prison Rodeo, the Coondog Graveyard, or presumably any other event we’ve photographed.  So, the report from Lexington is…BUST.

Disappointment would be an understatement of our reaction to Breyer’s decision.  And since they gave us only a day’s notice, it was impossible for us to find an alternative festival for the weekend.  That’s the reason we showed up anyway, hoping to convince the Breyer folks of our intentions.  We even got to the top, discussing the issue with the patriarch of plastic quadrupeds, the president of Breyer.  But his convictions were firm.

The bitter taste of rejection was on our tongues all weekend.  It was the AFP’s first encounter with corporate interests.  The battle between controlled corporate marketing and journalistic intent played out right before our eyes.  Breyer has lofty dreams to be “like Disney.”  They want all the commercial wheels greased, and they saw no benefit to AFP’s coverage of the event.  They want to be seen as mainstream and as accessible to all, but the truth is that Breyerfest is not like visiting Epcot Center.  Sheik the Danish Knabstruffer and Idocus the Warmblood Bay are not Mickey and Minnie Mouse.  Even if Target carries them all on Aisle 8, the world of Walt is just a few body lengths in the lead on that race.

So let’s play out a scenario.  A few thousand people from around the country and even a few from international countries converge on a single location to purchase a specific maker of collectible toy horses, talk about their collection of rare breed replicas,  offer advice for building a collection (aka “stable management”),  and learn techniques for making custom miniature saddles, harnesses, bridles, and other tack.   Many of the participants are young girls but the age of the attendees spans all ages.  A good percentage of them are wearing sweatshirts and t-shirts embossed with horse portraits.  They paint on their car windows and they shell out hundreds of dollars all to satisfy their passion for collectible model horses.  Now tell us, is this not a unique group of people?

We’ll be honest, we’re not model horse collectors.  Although Ross is a good jockey size and Andrew has broken his back shoveling out horse stalls over the years.  We’re photographers.  And for this project, we are photographing unique human gatherings that say something about they way Americans live today.  Going to these events and festivals is like seeing life in fast forward, like witnessing American traditions, rituals, and values in their most dense visual form. So why Breyerfest?  Why did AFP want to be there in the first place?   Why was it on the shortlist of festivals to attend?  Two reasons.  The first, perhaps no nation in the world hordes things like the US.  Cars, coins, teddy bears, family heirlooms, t-shirt collections, middle school essays, high school swimming trophies…it pains us to throw things away.  And many of us at some point or another in our lives have little collections of specific things.  For Ross it was rocks, buttons, baseball cards, and foreign coins.  For Andrew it was football cards, He-Man action figures, and toy race cars.  Creating a collection is part of growing up American. The second component of Breyerfest is the horse.  What animal is more accessible to the collective American memory than the horse?   What animal in the American consciousness is revered with as much grandeur and mystique as the horse?  From the Spanish conquistadors to Buffalo Bill, the horse is the animal that conquered the New World.

Who knows, maybe in a hundred years, we’ll all see that it was the Breyer horse that conquered the hearts and imaginations of young girls of the 21st century in a way that Barbie did in the 20th century.  Shirking off adorable bowtied mice and well-intentioned journalists will have presented no challenge, and the right of passage for all Americans will be a bareback ride to PasturePlanet. The AFP wishes Breyer all the best of luck, and we fully understand their point of view.  But it’s our duty as journalists to call a spade a spade.  And we’re sorry we couldn’t introduce the passionate, if not unique, world of model horse collecting to our faithful and engaged audience.

Folks, we know you’re excited to see pictures from Oklahoma.  It’s been a tough week on the road and we’ve fallen behind a little.  But we should have something up on Monday!  Here’s something to whet yer appetite!

Few things are more beautiful than a sunny day in Charlottesville in the spring time.  The temperature is just warm enough for you to feel the heat but the notorious summer humidity is still a few months away.  The dogwoods are in their majestic pink and white blooms.  The daffodils couldn’t be a more perfect yellow.  And the folks living here gleefully shake off the long winter season with whatever outdoor activity they can find.  There’s a gaiety to the air that’s infectious.  And down off Garth Road on the last Saturday every April there’s a type of gaiety and cheer that can only come from 12oz cans and horse racing.   The Fox Field Races are a C-ville tradition where the county’s blue-bloods picnic lavishly on the outer rim while UVA students drink themselves into a hilarious (if not dangerous) stupor.  On the outfield it’s a white-collar picnic; on the infield it’s the most savage frat party you’ve ever seen in a field.  Never mind the sundresses, bow ties, seersucker jackets and enough JCrew to barely stomach…I think they mean to be ironic.  (Or am I giving them too much credit?)

Is Fox Field an event worthy of the AFP name?  Some might argue that it’s not totally in line with our mission.  We’re not sure it had the kind of cultural relevance of some of our other events.  But it was in our backyard, and if there’s one thing Fox Field had in common with plenty of our other events…it’s beer.  So we grabbed our preppiest shirts, our cameras, a few cases for ourselves just to fit in, oh, and some of our best buds and joined the massive crowd.

L to R: Maria, Ross, Mandy, Sarah, Jenna, Jonny, Andrew

The biggest obstacle to Fox Field (besides the hefty ticket price) is getting there.  With one road, two entrances, thousands (literally) of cars, and millions of barely legal drinkers (ok, millions is exaggerating but it’s still like trying to find a parking space in a school of fish –Wahoos to be exact!) piled into a giant field, there is bound to be some congestion.

Door to door: 2hrs.  Door to door: 7.2miles

Fox Field is no Kentucky Derby, and the stakes aren’t quite as high as the grass.  This is after all a Steeplechase with a drinking problem.  But this year there were some very sad moments.  Two horses broke a leg on the final jump on two separate races and both had to be put down right there on the spot.  I missed these moments and only heard about them the next day (the photo action was not on the racetrack) but I did see a nice pink-shirted young colt get put down when he tried to run away from the cops.  Why does that seem like a feasible option when you’ve been drinking?

In the end it was a sunny beautiful day and the experience was humorous and spent with good friends.  But that might be the last Fox Field for a while.  We just didn’t quite fit in.  Still, we managed a few nice photos.  Enjoy the madness!

In this short video, be sure to notice the Makers Mark bottles, the half moon, and the “Only in America, dude!”

Sweetwater, Texas has been on the AFP radar for months. For fifty-one years, this small west Texas town has hosted the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup which has grown into what they proudly tout as “the world’s largest.”  An estimated 30,000 spectators come through the doors of the Nolan County coliseum over 3 days to wander amongst the 5,000 pounds of slithering snakeness.  There’s a weigh-in pit, a milking pit, a demonstration/safety awareness pit, and of course, the skinning pit.  This is, more or less, the fateful final course of events of any rattlesnake that ends up near the coliseum.  Then they become a pair of boots, a sweet guitar strap, a pair of dice, or a tasty snack on a stick.  But the “hunters” who bring in these venomous reptiles aren’t just doing it to help control the local population.  They’re making $5/pound and on Saturday afternoon one leading team had brought in $6500 worth of rattlers.  With our eyes, ears, and cameras we plunged into this fascinating world of ‘living with rattlesnakes.’

Indeed, living in this land of dry heat, shallow canyons, and rocky mesas, snakes are a part of life.  Not so much perhaps inside the city limits, but out in the country, you better watch your step.  Locals are more likely to get spooked by the site of a squirrel than a rattler.  But don’t get the impression that everyone out here in west Texas is cool at the site of a rattlesnake.  Far from it, in fact, but there are some hearty men and women who can drag these snakes out of their dens and then stand in a pit of hundreds with total aplomb.  With a durable pair of kevlar leg guards and some thick leather boots, a rattlesnake bite and the subsequent venom never make human contact.  It’s not advised for amateurs, but with the right protection you can wear your shorts in the snake pit.

Our time in the coliseum was certainly informative and the AFP now knows more about rattlesnakes than we ever thought we would.  But our time in Sweetwater would be incomplete if we didn’t go out on a real bona fide rattlesnake hunt.  With crummy weather, the outlooks was bleak.  Our Friday and Saturday, rain and wind canceled our hunting appointments.  Sunday was our last hope.  Luckily, the sun emerged and we were able to pin down Mr. Riley Sawyers who gave us a first class hunting experience.  With a few other local members of the Jaycees who organize the Roundup, Riley led us to an exposed hill side that had numerous promising snake dens.  Because rattlesnakes aren’t great burrowers, they slide into homes already dug out by porcupines, skunks, mice and other rodents.  For the winter they hibernate, but come spring, and especially on warm spring days after a cold spell, they’ll come out on the rocks and soak up the heat.  This was exactly the situation we found ourselves in.  So Riley and Co. gave us the speech to “watch out.”  And watch we did as the team of Jaycees pumped gasoline fumes into a few different potential holes.  Sometimes the snakes will come out quickly and most often they’re pretty fired up.

Stepping back from this scene, Ross walked a few steps back to compose a photograph.  Suddenly, he heard the chilling sound of shaking rattles and saw an angry rattler poised to strike if he should step any closer.  He was only 3 feet away.  It was a very close call.  And that was the first snake we caught on our hunt.  Shortly after, a few more came rushing out of the gassed dens and Andrew had the privilege to grab one and drop it in the box brought along for this very purpose.  In the end, we caught 4 good size snakes to add to the 5,500 pounds turned in at the 2009 Roundup.  It’s safe to say we got our fill of rattlesnakes and learned a thing or two about how to handles ourselves if we should ever encounter one again in the wild.  If that day never comes, we won’t be disappointed  Enjoy the photos and the video!

But before we found ourselves immersed in fiddles, accordions, and gumbo, our incredible hosts Jeff and Cecette Bassett warmed us up the night before with crawfish fettucini and a Mardi Gras parade in Lafayette. Jeff taught us the secret to catching beads but we learned the hard way that when it comes to those strings of plastic beads, it’s every man for himself. But we had an excuse; we had driven through the night from WV.

The atmosphere Tuesday morning was dramatically different. Instead of paved streets, toy vendors, RV’s, cop cars, and high school marching bands, we found ourselves surrounded by crawfish farms, rice fields, backcountry houses, and 300 people ready to sing and dance and party at 8am in the middle of nowhere.  At this Mardi Gras, there would be no bead throwing, there would be no floats, and there would be no parade queens.  In fact, there weren’t even any spectators, except for a handful of locals in lawn chairs.  The celebration was in participating, not in spectating.  And so for that, the one major rule was you had to show up in costume, otherwise you would face whipping and public condemnation. The key element in these outfits was fringe. The more fringe the better.  We never figured out what fashion precedent these costumes were based off of but it sort of looks like a KKK pajama party.  Masks are encouraged, and some sort of hat seemed requisite.  Amazingly, we had all that covered. Jeff and Cecette miraculously appropriated some authentic Cajun party suits for us, even bought us masks, and we were in like Flynn.

From the moment we arrived, we knew we were in for something special.  Jeff and Cecette drove us to the house where everyone was gathering and it felt a bit like going to school on the first day with mom and dad.  We didn’t know anyone; we felt a little embarrassed about our clothes.  And we didn’t know quite what to expect.  But within minutes we had made friends with Holly and Grease who made us swig cinnamon whiskey and holler “Hot Damn!”  If whiskey is good for one thing, it’s breaking the ice.  So there we were, two Virginia boys in pointed caps, cameras on our shoulders,  sour mash on our breath, and not a clue what the morning and afternoon lay in store.  But it was immediately apparent that a day full of beautiful pictures was ahead of us.

What ensued was likely one of the most wonderful days AFP has experienced yet, and ranks up there with one of the best days of our lives.  Very simply we just walked through the Cajun countryside like some sort of tribe, a band of gypsies, a family of bejeweled strangers, dancing and singing to songs from the Cajun canon.  Ok, maybe “simply” isn’t the right word.  At every third house or so we passed, the entire caravan stopped and would beg for a live chicken.  A resident from the house would then hold up the animal, inciting the mob into a frenzy, and then launch the bird into the air setting off a furious dash to catch it.  If the chase wasn’t long enough there might be a 2nd or 3rd chicken throwing.  We must have done this seven times and after each one the band on the wagon would start again and dancing would recommence.  Slowly, we made our way across grass fields, dirt roads, through cemeteries, and eventually back to the house where it all began for a community gumbo and dance. Perhaps it was the cinnamon whiskey that started the day.  Perhaps it was first days of warm weather we had experienced in months.  Perhaps it was that infectious cajun fiddling.  But there was a warmth to this day that will be hard to forget.

If you’re one to usually skim the photos, please take your time with this slide show.  It’s fascinating.  So much so that we purposefully left our written descriptions to a minimum.  Colorful, strange, mind blowing–all words that we use to try to describe the day.

cajun mardi gras from Ross McDermott on Vimeo.

We owe a huge thank you to Cecette and Jeff for opening their house to a couple of strangers and taking us in like we were their own children!  The king cakes and crawfish boil on our last night completed our authentic Louisiana adventure.

Cecette with her puppies Bijou and Zoe behind their beautiful house.

The highest incorporated town in West Virginia is a little gem of a place nestled in the Caanan Valley called Davis.  When you cross the bridge over the Blackwater River, you don’t have to drive for more than minute before you’ve passed through town.  If you didn’t stop at Siriani’s Cafe, Hellbender Burritos, or the Bright Morning Inn, you’ll have missed some fine eating.  But you will also have missed an opportunity to taste some delicious hand crafted brew on tap from the Mountain State Brewery (The Link is Here).  Just two miles down the road in Thomas, WV, our buddy Willie Lehman makes the finest beer in the state.

Ross likes the amber ale best of all, but the Coal Miner’s Daughter Stout is pretty hard to beat on those wintry nights.  AFP found a welcoming home in Thomas and the most gracious host in Willie.  With no shortage of Waylon Jennings on the record player, we tried to catch up on our editing and blogging and prepared for the next festival, Fasnacht.

The German translation of Fasnacht is literally “first night.”  And in the town of Helvetia, WV, population 65, Swiss-German was spoken until about 1940.  Swiss immigrants settled this mountain hamlet around 1860 and their influence is still felt today.  The Hutte restaurant, run by Willie’s 91 year-old grandmother Eleanor Mailloux (and who is the matriarch of the town) serves only swiss-german food on the menu.  There are only two community buildings and one of them is named for the original community band from the 1920s, the Star Band.  There is a town museum which is little more than a preserved wooden 2 room house replete with historic tools and instruments.  Most everyone works an hour away, sometimes closer if they work for the coal mines.  In short, there’s very little to see or do in Helvetia.  And as a result, the town numbers are slowly declining.  One might think this is a place destined for extinction.  But if you knew Willie and you knew Fasnacht, you would see the bright future that’s in store for Helvetia.

Before we travel to a new festival, it’s hard to predict what we will experience.  For the small and traditional festivals, it’s even harder.  There’s no PR team to call, no website to see photos.  But the mission of AFP is to find those pockets of America that are off the well-worn path and to discover fascinating unique rituals and celebrations.  Fasnacht and Helvetia were exactly what we hoped to find.  We also found that some of our best friends from Charlottesville (Mandy, Sarah, Jonny, and Tom) had trekked over a few mountains passes to see us and dance away the winter blues.

There’s no real official start time to Fasnacht.  And it’s never very clear how many people are going to show up.  The town’s population can increase by about 1000% on the night of the holiday (of course you’re starting at 65 people).  We met 2 couples who had come all the way from Ohio but for the most part it’s locals and West Virginia folks.  As people streamed in during the day, everyone gathered in the Star Band Hall for delicious german bratwursts with sauerkraut and a bluegrass jam session.  This was our plan for dinner originally.  Beer and Brats.  Then we heard about the belly dancers and the infamous fare over at the Hutte Restaurant.  So we begged for a table and it was a food experience we will never forget.  Homemade spiced sausage, cilantro potatoes, onion pie, chicken that melted off the bone, country green beans with ham, fresh apple butter, spiced beets, peach cobbler with nutmeg…it was endless.  And it was all so wonderful. We can’t really explain the belly dancers other than that Ms. Mailloux is a colorful soul and loves the extra excitement a bare midriff brings to a meal.  Imagine eating homemade applesauce in a dining room with deer heads on the walls and looking over to see dancers out of Lawrence of Arabia.

Fully sated, it was just about time for the parade to begin.  But let us reiterate, this town is tiny.  A parade through town is no more than 200 yards long.  We began at the Star Band Hall and w alked with lampions in hand to the newer community hall where Old Man Winter was hanging from the ceiling, ready to be burned in effigy at midnight.  Most paraders wore masks and costumes intended to scare, intimidate, and run Mr. Winter out of town.  Once inside the hall, everyone joined hands to circle around the room and then the square dance began in full order for the next three hours.  Orange slices, cookies, peanut butter on celery sticks, lemonade, and some live string music kept us going through it all.

Fasnacht from Ross McDermott on Vimeo.

When the clock struck midnight, Old Man Winter was cut from his high perch and dragged outside with a raging crowd following.  He was met by a roaring bonfire and a drunken crowd that wanted nothing more than to see him turn to ash.  It was the official mark of the end of winter.  But it certinaly didn’t mark the end the night.  The festivities shifted down the street, where musicians and belly dancers entertained the late-night revelers.  That night in Helvetia, Old ManWinter still had some life in him as thick flurries fell from the sky and rumors spread that 7 inches were expected by morning.  The Charlottesville crew and some new found friends from WVA (“the Brown Sisters”) rallied and moved the party into the Dodge Lodge.

Come morning, it was clear winter was still around and almost all evidence of the celebration just hours before was disguised under a thick blanket of snow.   The only person stirring of course was Eleanor Mailloux, the queen of Helvetia, opening the doors of the Hutte Restaurant and offering another day of warmth and tradition to this magical West Virginia town.

Part I: Syracuse, New York.  Home of Syracuse University and the Carrier Dome where Orangemen teams for decades have won national championships from basketball to lacrosse.  And last weekend, this was supposed to be the location of the Eastern Championships for the Xtreme Cheer and Dance competition.  So perfect for AFP!!!  But alas, a last minute cancellation of the dance fest threw our plans into a tailspin and we had to improvise.  Plan B…the Dartmouth College winter carnival.  “It has potential” we thought to ourselves.  And its only 2 hours away.  Running the truck on veggie grease most of the way, we pulled into Hanover, NH with about 10 minutes to spare before the start of the Polar Plunge.  For 2+ hours, Dartmouth students shed their winter clothes on the ice of Occam Pond, revealing skimpy bathing suits, and one-by-one lept into the frigid water.  It was akin to watching lemmings walk single file off the edge of a cliff.  Smiles and screams of excitement on dry-land quickly subsided when bodies went into the sobering emotions of survival mode.  The things we do for a quick thrill!  And the things we’ll endure for a good photo.  Even with completely frozen hands, we persevered to make some nice frames.

Polar Plunge from Ross McDermott on Vimeo.

Part II: What started as an auspicious morning quickly turned in a different direction.  Seeking hot chocolate and wifi, we were cleverly duped by the “Dirty Cowboy Cafe” who could provide the beverages but not the broadband.  What college coffee shop doesn’t have internet?  Lame.  So we peaced and headed over to frat row (Webster Street) to poke around and get the skinny on all the party happenings that night.  Ross had read online about Dartmouth’s infamous winterfest parties (rumor has it “Animal House” is based on one of these fraternities) and thought what better opportunity to photograph America’s best and brightest at their finest.  With our ear to the street, word of an 80’s party surfaced and we set out to guarantee our place in party history by gleaning the local Salvation Army for neon ski outfits.  To make a long story really short, the shopping was certainly successful, but the parties were a total bust.  When you throw a costume party in Charlottesville, you better bring your A-game.  Apparently at Dartmouth, its means costume optional and beer pong trumps dancing. We were appalled.  But then again so were the frat boys looking at Virginina IDs with DOBs from 1981.  To say we stood out is an understatement.  We looked like undercover cops.  Where had all that northern love gone?

Actually, we found that northern spirit of generosity and friendship about 7 miles down the road waiting for us with cold beers and plenty of room for bedding down.  Our hostess with the mostess, Ms. Amy Miller, is a friend of a friend and through a series of small miracles ended up welcoming us into her country home.  She didn’t even bat an eye when we arrived to the door after midnight still wearing our ridiculous retro threads.  For the next four days, AFP had awesome meals, great conversations, sledding adventures, and the all important wifi for blogging.  There was even the opportunity to hear “Patience” played bluegrass style.

Amy is a classical violinist turned fiddle player who is no stranger to travel.  Her dad is an esteemed anthropologist and took the family every year to live in various parts of the world for 3-6 months.  Having spent lots of her life in West Africa, she seems content to be settling into life in Vermont.  Her goal is to open a space in her hometown in Norwich, VT that will be an anchor venue for local artists and community events.   At 25, most young people are still thinking about what they can take for themselves.  For Amy, giving back seems to be her preferred way of life.  We certainly enjoyed the benefits of such a warm personality.

With the help of couchsurfing.com we discovered our long lost mom and dad, Paul Cartwright and Susan Shaw. We had a hunch that Paul and Susan were going to be cool, but we never anticipated developing such a friendship so quickly. Ross was immediately in awe when he saw Paul’s built-from-scratch recumbent unicycle. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Paul builds boats, houses, docks, igloos, and can rig up just about anything you can think of. Check out the swing in the living room and the junk mail chute in the kitchen. The backyard was covered in about 3 feet of snow so the pictures on the fridge had to suffice for seeing Susan’s garden but she gave us a demo of how she hybridizes daylillies. Think Darwin meets Thomas Jefferson in this household. Darwin also doubles as a massage specialist. Everyday we learned something new about this incredible duo.

paul and susan from Ross McDermott on Vimeo.

The hardest thing to learn  was that Paul is in way better shape than us. We just about puked running up Mt. Battie trying to keep up with Paul. But we did catch an amazing sunset and moonrise on our last night. However, the coup de grace may have been sledding back down into Camden under the glowing light of the full moon on what can only be described as a road turned awesome luge course. At the bottom is where we made our infamous contact page photo.

As we mentioned in our last post, Alison and Adam from National Geographic “Wild Chronicles” made the trek up to Camden to film a short piece on AFP that will air on PBS sometime this fall. Be prepared for some serious “documentary” work…”arriving” in Camden, “meeting” Paul and Susan for the first time (this was hilarious!), and of course interviews about tobogganing and couchsurfing. Paul and Susan had no idea their post on couchsurfing.com would lead to TV stardom. We’re thrilled about the love National Geographic is showing us with grant money and the Wild Chronicles piece (oh yeah, and the bowls of chowder too).

The incredible hospitality continued south of Camden in Tenants Harbor, when our new-found friend from the Contra Dance, Hannah Wheeler put us up for a couple nights. With a house right on the coast, this West Virginia girl is getting pretty comfortable living the Maine lifestyle. The lobstermen at the lunch counter are a bit salty but she seems to hold her ground pretty well. The sheer beauty of the Maine coastline just can’t be beat and we were able to take in some special moments. We also got some good advice from the gentleman towing the Dodge Lodge out of a nasty ditch, “You boys enjoy your continued tour of the coast of Maine. Next time, keep your truck on the road.”

Our last stop in the Vacation State took us to York, Maine and the world headquarters for Grain Surfboards (total number of employees…6). Owners Mike and Brad gave us a tour of the shop and the process for making some of the most beautiful wooden surfboards around. Which led us of course to ask the obvious question you’re all asking yourself, what are people in Maine doing making surfboards? Apparently, they surf here. Even in winter. We had hoped to photograph some winter surfing but the tides weren’t cooperating. Nevertheless we are super appreciative for the guys at Grain who offered us some great conversation, an overnight parking space, and the sweet decal to bejewel the camper.

This is all to say that Maine was extraordinary and the people we met were awesome. Competitive toboganning is now something we can cross off our list of life goals. We hope to make it back in summer when the blueberries are plump and the ladies are as red as the lobsters.

No one said navigating the Dodge Lodge through ice and snow would be easy.  In fact, we had to get towed out…twice.  Virginians just aren’t cut out for driving on frozen lakes.  But when it comes to dancing, state lines no longer matter.  See Ross’s latest video for some of our driving and contra dancing adventures in Maine.

The American Festivals Project is back in action!  After a little winter nap and a few minor tweaks (ok, major is more like it), AFP is in better shape than ever.  We’re proudly sporting a new website.  Thanks to the boys at BA21 for getting this up.  The Airstream is gone.  Sigh…yes, but you try weaving in and out of flooded Chicago traffic pulling that behind your half-ton pickup.  Just feast your eyes, however, on our elegant luxury 1964 camper/home “The Dodge Lodge.”  Her ass is pretty big but she’s a true beauty.  Plus, the propane still works!  You might also notice a new face on the AFP website.  Charlottesville resident and photographer Andrew Owen is joining the project and gettin’ dirty with picture-takin’, bloggin’, and veggie greasin’.  So far so good with all the new changes!

We’re super excited for the next eight months and the upcoming adventures.  You can practically ride shotgun with us by tuning into our blog which we’re hoping to update daily.  We’re a touch behind already but we have some awesome posts coming really soon.  Keep an eye out too for some new features including daily twitter feeds, hi-def video clips, and a sweet map to track our progress.  Of course, make sure to see all the slideshow galleries from each festival.

It wasn’t easy getting out of Cville but with a little help from our friends we were able to pull it altogether.  Many thanks to Wheeler, Emily, and Jenna for the extra boost so we could set sail.  With Jonny Mills and Gabe Allan in the backseat, the Dodge Lodge loaded up on a tank of fresh veggie in Ivy and then departed on Friday January 30th for New York City.   We hit some nasty weather in PA but Ross kept his head as best he could and steered the big rig into the Big Apple.

We arrived just in time for a nights sleep before Brooklyn’s most vicious, fearsome, competitive, and ruthless shopping cart race the Idiotarod.  Inspired by the grueling dog-sled race through the bitter Alaskan wilderness, the Idiotarod also features sub-freezing temperatures, a nearly un-navigable course, and a host of predators.  Sabotage is just a way of life in the Idiotarod.  Feelings of helplessness, confusion, and despair can set in.  But with any great risk comes great reward.  And nothing can replace the exhiliration of crossing that finish line at GreenPoint Park.  A special shout-out goes to Razvan, Dudu, Natalia, Stelliana, Roma, and Gwendolyna of the Romanian Gymnastics team who finished the 5-mile competition in 13th place.

Make sure to check out all the best of the Idiotarod in our photo album

That’s it for now.  More to follow soon…