Devil’s Gulch is a trail on Mission Ridge near Cashmere – on the sunny side of the Cascades. A while back, on a hot Saturday, Kirk tackled the trail on his mountain bike while I went to my first bluegrass festival at the Chelan County Fairgrounds. A flat grassy expanse with only a few skinny trees, the fairground was surprisingly empty. The real action was in the RV lot, where bluegrass lovers packed in with their RVs, trucks and camper. They rigged up little jam sessions under temporary awnings, and picked, strummed and sawed away.

I was in that last category. About a year ago, I picked up the fiddle again, after decades of not playing. Playing the fiddle had always been a difficult endeavor. On the one hand, I truly loved figuring out tunes. On the other, I listened to artists like Stephane Grappelli, Joe Venuti, Bill Monroe and Natalie MacMaster, and figured what’s the use? I’d never be as good as I want to be, so I quit.

Another reason (I told myself): I can’t write AND play music. God forbid I become a dilettante!

But music makes me happy in ways that writing doesn’t (vice-versa, of course). Music taps into a subconscious part of my brain. I don’t know how I remember tunes, or how those tunes make the leap from my brain to my fingers on the keyboard, but it feels so satisfying when I’m in the flow. I still play some stinky note; my bow still skips and screeches – but I’m getting better, and I hope, more musical. I’ve developed this theory that two arts can complement each other, sort of like cross-fit training.

For the past year, I’ve been going to Jack’s Thursday jam, practicing harmonies with my friend (and wonderful fiddler player) Teresa, and working up my nerve to play with others. Except for a few gnarly gnomes who shall be nameless, the bluegrass community is very open and welcome. I’m not sure if bluegrass is where I fit in, but there a whole lot of great stuff to learn and play there. I feel like a sponge, soaking in as much as I can.

I spent a hot sunny afternoon jamming with near strangers and then began to worry around 6pm when Kirk hadn’t returned from his bike ride. He’d been gone about 12 hours. I went to the festival’s night concert with friends and nervously checked my phone for his text. Finally, he texted and said he’d just finished. An hour or so later, he showed up, exhausted but happy.

He said the forest service signs had been shot at and blasted to smithereens and at one point he lost his way. Not only that, but he kept running into entire families or morel-hunters. The pricey little mushrooms thrive in areas of recent forest fires. Morels sell for $25-30 a pound. Our Wenatchee friends said there’d been some violence due to competing morel-hunters (though when I did a little research, I couldn’t find any news articles about it).

Kirk and I sat and listened to a terrific band called “Dirty Kitchen,” a progressive bluegrass group in the Alison Krauss tradition.

Outlaw Mountain – that’s my nickname for Mission Ridge. Why all the shot-out signs? Has the Forest Service retreated?

Maybe some bluegrass band will write a song – Outlaw Mountain.