As me and my car stumbled to a halt in that vast line of cars awaiting passage through to the entrance of IT, the summer morning condensation had just begun burning off—the momentum that kept me alert through the night as I drove pleaded for me to push forward…I departed, barefoot, leaving friends to fend with my car, tiptoed the roadside like a tightrope passing vehicles with their occupants, half-woke, being greeted by the heat of the rising sun.

Hours later, arriving back at my car, anticipation’s surge of serotonine, well past it’s peak, dissipated as blisters formed on my road-ravaged feet. Some memories are shrouded in haze, similar to the thin veil that lightly blankets an upstate dawn’s rolling hills; this is not one of those memories…this memory is vivid-sharp, painfully clear, my feet still shutter at the thought of that barefoot “stroll” and my stupidity. But I slipped back behind the wheel and cringed with each clutch press and the pin pricked pangs, in that slow drawl of traffic towards the security check.

That’s how IT started for me. It was all upside once I got my feet situated at a medic tent. And that first set closing Cavern, which is forgettable, to a certain degree, is just another form of IT; the universal recognition of a soul’s singular experience and broadcasting its awareness for said experience, leveraging Phish as it’s vessel and means of communication. Or, it was just dumb luck.