For thirty years, this event has been more than just a gathering—it’s been a tradition, a living memory carried forward by the people who refuse to let it fade. This year’s milestone celebration proved that its spirit hasn’t dimmed; if anything, it burned brighter than ever.
The weekend opened under perfect skies. The weather couldn’t have been better—clear, warm, and inviting. By Friday afternoon, the grounds were already buzzing with activity. Campers rolled in one after another, their RVs and trucks lining up as laughter and music filled the air. You could smell the smoke from a dozen campfires, each surrounded by old friends and newcomers trading stories, cooking over open flames, and raising a drink to the event’s thirtieth year.
The main stage was alive with sound checks, amps humming, and guitars tuning up. By sundown, the first of many live bands kicked off, setting the tone for what would be a long, rowdy, unforgettable night. Then came the man everyone had been waiting for—POGO, the master of ceremonies, a familiar face to anyone who’s been part of this scene. He wasn’t just an MC; he was the heartbeat of the party. Loud, charismatic, outrageous, and endlessly entertaining, POGO had the crowd roaring within minutes. Whether he was cracking jokes, hyping the bands, or playfully coaxing volunteers into harmless mischief, he had a gift for pulling people out of their shells. The man could get anyone to loosen up—and he often did.
As the night went on, things only got wilder. Body painters set up near the main camp area, their brushes flashing under strings of colored lights. The crowd was full of energy—dancing, laughing, singing along with the bands. The music ranged from blues to hard rock to country covers, each act giving their all to an audience that refused to slow down. You could tell everyone was there to celebrate not just the event but the years it had survived, the friendships it had built, and the memories still being made.
By late evening, a giant American flag appeared on the front stage—an unmissable symbol against the night sky. But this wasn’t just for show. As the music quieted for a moment, the organizers announced something special: the flag would be sent overseas, to a unit currently serving in Afghanistan. It would carry with it hundreds of signatures and messages from the festivalgoers—small notes of gratitude, encouragement, and love.
Within minutes, a line formed that stretched across the field. People waited patiently, markers in hand, to leave their mark. Some wrote simple words like “Stay safe” or “We’re proud of you.” Others scrawled personal stories, names of family members in service, or just a heartfelt “Thank you.” It was one of those rare moments when a loud, chaotic party fell silent, replaced by a shared sense of pride and respect. Even POGO, usually a walking storm of humor and energy, stood quietly by, watching the flag fill with names.
Once the flag was covered corner to corner, it was raised again, illuminated by the stage lights. The crowd cheered—a thunderous, unfiltered sound that rolled across the campgrounds and into the night. It was more than noise; it was gratitude turned into a roar. For all the laughter, drinking, and dancing, that moment reminded everyone what community can look like—messy, loud, but deeply human.
After that, the music kicked back up. Fireworks lit the sky. The night stretched into morning, and still, no one seemed in a hurry to leave. Around every fire pit, stories were told about the early days—how the first event started small, just a few friends and some homemade chili, and how it grew into something massive. They talked about the faces that had come and gone, the old trucks that broke down on the way here, and the countless times they swore this would be their “last year”… only to show up again the next.
The event had always been about more than just food or music. It was about a certain kind of freedom—the kind that comes from unplugging, getting a little dirty, and being surrounded by people who get it. The kind of freedom you can’t buy or fake. Every year, despite the changing times, people came back for that feeling.
By Saturday afternoon, the place looked like its own little town. Makeshift camps lined every corner, banners flapping, grills smoking, coolers packed. Kids ran around with painted faces while the older crowd lounged in folding chairs, nursing hangovers and laughing about the night before. Vendors sold everything from handcrafted jewelry to smoked ribs. The smell of chili, barbecue, and roasted corn mixed in the air—a scent that’s impossible to forget once you’ve been part of it.
In the evening, a second round of bands took the stage, bringing the crowd back to life. POGO returned, louder than ever, introducing each act with that trademark flair of his. “Thirty years,” he shouted into the mic. “You crazy bastards did it again!” The crowd erupted, drinks raised high. It didn’t matter if you’d been coming since the beginning or if this was your first time. Everyone belonged here.
By Sunday morning, the place had quieted down. People packed up slowly, moving at the kind of pace that comes after two nights of hard celebration. There was exhaustion, sure, but it was the good kind—the kind that comes from living fully. Before leaving, many stopped by the main stage one last time to look at the now-famous flag, waiting to be shipped off. The signatures shimmered faintly in the early light, a collage of thousands of stories layered over thirty years of tradition.
Driving away, you could still smell the ashes of campfires fading in the distance. The laughter and music might have stopped for now, but you knew it wouldn’t be long before plans for next year began. Because this isn’t just an event. It’s a ritual, a reunion, a reminder that no matter how much changes, some things are worth keeping alive.
Thirty years in, and it’s still going strong—louder, prouder, and more alive than ever.