by Brandon Hennen
Sherman New York—It was10:00 pm Friday night. A rolling wave of thick fog unfurled before me as I walked the gravel pathway leading into the woods. As in a dream everything seemed slightly askew. A barrage of music noise and the general mayhem of the people from the stages in the field below only excited this feeling. One of my friends jabbed me in the arm with his elbow and said, “There’s your inspiration,” pointing to the eerie mouth of the woods and all the people pouring out of it. As we headed to the campsite and into the chaos of glow stick waving hippies and dealers standing by the side of the path offering reasonably priced “trips” in the form of tabs, cookies, brownies, chocolates, and more. I knew this would be an experience that would not soon be forgotten. It was The Great Blue Heron Music Festival, and I had arrived.