Nobody Parties Harder Than Rednecks.

          I was the poor kid by comparison at my high school but only because the majority of my peers were raised in multi-million dollar homes. Naturally, off-roading was one of the many expensive hobbies some friends of mine were in to that I did not partake of. I just put it into the same category as Wakeboarding, Golf, Snowmobiling, or whatever else they were doing that I could not afford. I wasn't world wise enough yet to realize that off-roading was one of those strange crossover hobbies rich kids did that also sparked the fancy of those described as rednecks. I knew they existed (rednecks) because of pop culture, but my corner of Washington State didn't have any rodeos or Nascar tracks nearby so I just assumed they all lived in Mississippi. Little did I know that a world of rednecks and their hee-haw off-roading mega parties were just over the mountains, a mere two hour drive away and were about to teach me how to party for real.

        

       
          When I was in high school, like most others I had my core group of friends, and then a few larger scenes of friends that hung out together. It was in one of these larger groups that harbored the off-roading enthusiasts of my grade. We were seniors about to graduate and looking for something wild to do. It wasn't spoken outright but a lot of us had recently earned the freedom of adulthood and wanted to take it out for a test drive so to speak. Drinking in the park had been done. We wanted a real party. It felt like there was a large balloon in the cafeteria that was crushing us with it's pressure as we silently ate our sandwiches in those final few weeks of high school. All we needed was one good lead for it to pop. Then one day it did. I showed up to school and a lot of people were talking about this huge off-roading festival that was described simply as fifteen thousand rednecks in the desert going berserk for a week. Apparently Joey had a brother or a cousin that had been to it the year before and confirmed it was the craziest time he'd ever had. With that as our only info, about fifty of us started packing up camping supplies. That weekend we all met in a large cul-de-sac outside someone's house to assemble a train of cars into the unknown. As everybody was loading up, I noticed lots of beer. Cases upon cases. Even a keg was being hoisted in to someone's truck. 

          "Did anybody pack any water?" someone shouted sarcastically to which someone replied from the other side of the cul-de-sac; "If we get thirsty, we'll just drink more beer!" Laughes ensued but there really was a water shortage that was not being seriously acknowledged. I wanted to stop at a grocery store to grab a few jugs but it was too late, the cheers were ramping up and the train was leaving. I had no cell phone and no directions so I had to follow. Next stop, the desert.
          Two hours later, the cars took a turn onto a sandy makeshift road that my '89 Volkswagon Fox could barely get through and I got my first reality check to where I had wandered to. There was a large monster truck parked with about six drunk mullet heads on top yelling and spitting while a boy about six years old held a sign down below that said "show me your tits". A pregnant woman was flashing him. This was going to be a wild weekend for sure but I noticed right away that our group was treading way out of our territory. This realization became very clear as soon as we set up our camp. Three guys from our high school party pack were African American and the camp next to ours didn't hesitate to raise a car sized confederate flag and proceeded to sit and stare at us all while chewing tobacco. It was uncomfortable but only made us all go for the beer faster. 

          Word was that about a half mile away in the center of the camps there was a large mud pit that served as the main stage for entertainment of sorts. To be clear, there was no official name for this festival, no hired security, no organization whatsoever. This was simply a bunch of people in the desert drinking beer and driving their ridiculous trucks, so there was no schedule of events at the mud pit, just whatever happens, happens. When I arrived there were three trucks driving in a figure eight as fast as they could just barely missing each other in the middle with each lap. The close calls caused a lot of yelling from the hundreds of beer toting onlookers. Eventually, to no one's great surprise, one of the trucks t-boned another and caused it to roll onto it's side. Immediately, fifty or so people rushed in to tip it back upright and when they did everyone cheered as if tipping it right side up somehow eliminated the bent axle and crushed paneling. The last thing on anybody's mind was to check on the driver, who although very drunk and dazed did appear uninjured for the most part as he swaggered around his wrecked truck cursing.
          After that incident the mud pit was somewhat quiet as people looked around anxiously in anticipation of what would happen next. A short while later we heard the familiar rumble of our friend Jason's tricked out rig cruising over the hill towards the pit. He took his raised Bronco straight in and started doing donuts, spraying mud everywhere. We were nervous and proud as we watched our brethren spin with testosterone. Ten glorious seconds later he wisely drove out. Silence. The crowd wasn't impressed. They were here for boobs or blood, anything less was a waste of time.
          The next vehicle to show up entered significantly more dignified with a slow commanding approach and just parked in the middle. It was a new Hummer with a tarp sign mounted on top that said "Hummdaddy". The door opened and a steroid infused, balding mullet head I presumed was Hummdaddy himself exited and climbed on top. He began waving his arms with authority and shouting something I couldn't make out. Before I could hypothesize any further to what his intentions were, girls of all sizes, ages, and shapes began lining up behind the Hummer in the mud. One by one Hummdaddy invited them up to it's roof where he would stand behind them, help them lift their shirts up, grab their boobs, and pan the crowd while wiggling them. The cheering was loud and only caused all the onlookers to rush the pit, filling in any vacant square foot of the mud hole. My friend David elbowed me during the stampede urging my buddy Mark and I to join him and get closer. The mob was thick and didn't give us much choice in the matter so we followed.
          There we stood knee deep in mud underneath Humdaddy and his impromptu boobie show and I thought it couldn't get any weirder but it did. A skinny well endowed blond got up to take her turn but this time she grabbed her own boobs and shockingly squirted two large full streams of breast milk onto the onlookers. David got it right in the face, turned to us completely stunned and asked us if that had just happened. Mark and I confirmed that it had and that we should probably get back to camp before it got even more bizarre.

          Night fell and the high school clan I arrived with seemed to split into two distinct groups; those who got way too drunk too early, and those who were hiding in their tents scared for their life. A few of us built a fire in the center of camp to make it more of an official establishment. As soon as it grew to a decent size, a dirt bike with two people on it came out of nowhere and drove right through it spreading sparks and pieces of burning wood throughout our compound. We determined that fire attracts crazy rednecks like a porch light does misquotes so we put it out for good.
          The keg was finally rolled out in the darkness and there was a chaotic frenzy of cups filling up with nothing but pure warm foam. In the midst of this seemingly lawless environment the cops appeared as soon as everyone was holding a cup. Even with drunk, fire thrashing motorcycle warriors abundant, the police always know how to sniff out the high schoolers. While my peers were getting in line to sign their MIPs I slipped away and began my solo adventure into the abyss.
          I started by hitch hiking along the main road. My first ride was a drunk dirt biker. It was fun for about five minutes then he ran out of gas. He pulled the bike off the road and began burying it in the sand muttering to himself about how someone would try and steal it if he didn't hide it. I stood there awkwardly for a moment and watched the squirrel bury his nut before I wished him luck on finding it in the morning then continued my quest.
          The next ride I got was in a huge raised pickup who was on it's way out to the dunes behind the campground for some good 'ol night time off-roadin'. Judging by the size of his vehicle and his flood lights I presumed he knew what he was doing so I buckled up and held on. He was a nice guy amped more on caffeine than booze so it seemed safer than my last ride at least. The dunes looked amazing with hundreds of huge foggy beams of light shooting every direction as vehicles of all types were plowing up and down the slopes. There was no route of any kind and within minutes there were already a few terrifying near misses. I suddenly remembered  a conversation I had earlier where some kid told me that six people had died at this event last year. I had no idea what amount of truth was in that statement but the validating evidence was starting to show up all around me. I politely asked my Mountain Dew swigging friend to drop me off the next time he drove by a safe area to pull over. He was understanding and obliged. He took me to the first stationary group of vehicles he came across and sent me on my way.
          I had no idea what the shape of the layout was for this place and it was dark so I was pretty lost at this point. I meandered casually over to a large fire where I heard lots of cheering to see if I could blend in for a while. I didn't get too close as I saw that the vocal outbursts were roaring every time some idiot jumped through the enormous bon fire. I wasn't in the mood to see someone get burned so I wandered further and came across a school bus with multicolored light rays flickering from it's windows. Based on my previous encounters, I approached it cautiously. It turned out that my night was not yet done delivering the unexpected. Inside was an ethnically diverse Michael Jackson dance party. I entered and immediately started dancing which drew shouts of glee from everyone inside. I got the impression that only one in a hundred people who poked their head in to this bus knew what to do and I was one of them. The magic bus was a welcomed oasis in the redneck mecca. As I shook my booty to "Beat It" I wondered if I had somehow temporarily warped to Burning Man. I stayed for an hour or so then decided it would probably be a good idea to begin my trek back to my tent since I had no idea how far or what direction it was. I gave a hearty farewell to my new bus boogie buddies and continued on.
          Another hour or so of asking directions and sketchy rides passed by and I eventually made it back. The wind picked up the next morning and was kicking up sand wherever it blew. It was hard to breathe or even open my eyes so I duct taped my sun glassed to my face. Once I was able to see I found out I wasn't the only one with tape on my face. It was completely miserable, I was hung over, couldn't cook my eggs, couldn't really do anything but fight the sand and as I predicted, water was as precious as gold. People started leaving and I decided that was the best idea. The road I had taken my car out there with had been completely destroyed over night and only vehicles equipped with enormous tires could manage it. There was another way out the other direction but it involved taking my trustie Volkswagon Fox over an almost vertical drop down the side of a dune. I had seen a few off-roading rigs take the plunge with ease the day before so I decided to give it a shot. It had a nice long sandy ramp shaped bottom to it like all the dunes did so it looked do-able. I couldn't really see what could go wrong as long as I didn't turn the wheel during the maneuver. I Revved up my engine, mustered my way out of the site, and took the drop. I made it out victoriously with a fanfare of cheers from the exodus of other campers in the sand storm. There seamed to be no damage on my car but a week later I had to replace all my wheel bearings which set me back almost a grand. Apparently Volkswagons aren't made to drive on sand dunes.
          That wasn't the last time I partied with rednecks but it was definitely the craziest. There's not really a moral to this story so I'll just end here.