Watching the Running of the Tarps on YouTube before actually experiencing it only confused me. It was one of many rituals embedded in this festival which challenged me, a first timer to breathe deeply and step into a high altitude state of mind. The entire week at Telluride was tinged with a wash of low oxygen. Just as high altitude lakes are clearer and colder than their more organically endowed lowland kin, synapses tempered at alpine elevations snap from thought to thought, stand as is, no need to look back or rework. Soulful bass give way to lightening reflective trout. As tea brown soupy ponds contrast with crisp reflections of rock and sky, so the mind perches on the cusp of each idea, surrounded and informed by the vastness of thin air and the rocky mountains that charge through it. Eight thousand feet below is another world, a memory hardly worth the energy expended in recalling it. For some there is an adjustment period marked by light headedness or nausea. For me it was a headache the first morning. I remember climbing out of my tent that day and being shocked by the light air at my tent flap and the intensity of the snow melt river racing down the canyon past our camp. The moment evoked memories of back packing trips in the Sierras or hostel mornings in the Canadian Rockies. I came through it by donning dark glasses, staying hydrated, and intentionally drinking a cup of coffee while seated in a folding chair on a gravely bank in the face of the riotous San Miguel River.
But yes, The Running of the Tarps. Once the starting numbers have been obtained (see prior blog entry) the strategizing for the actual run begins. The person chosen by each camp to run must possess both speed and strength of character; what lies ahead will require both. Such a baseball player he would need to be able to hit for average and slugging percentage, to possess the ability to advance from first to third on a short single, and the strength to knock down the catcher blocking home plate. Breakfast is eaten; granola and hearty burritos. Late risers hurriedly wash up and dress. Now the runners are led by festival officials to the gate. They trudge past us one by one like gladiators going to their fate. All members of Camp Little Del gather at a strategic corner and cheer on our chosen. The sun is strong even at this hour and the day is charged. Once the numbered runners have passed by we fall in behind as a group with folding chairs and knapsacks, all heading towards the Main Stage area.
Now the sound of bagpipes is heard. A crowd has gathered on the main stage looking back. All eyes are trained on the entrance at the back of the field. On adjoining hillsides clusters of onlookers peer through binoculars and children are boosted onto parent's shoulders. The William Tell Overture bursts from the stage in a shrill of mandolin and banjos and out on the great expanse of lawn runners bearing blue and green plastic tarps emerge. The runner's are let in one at a time according to their number, but once they're past the starting gate this becomes nothing but a foot race. Savvy veteran campers have been said to hire ringers, young and athletic, to take on this task. You can see them streaking across the field, overturning order and bypassing fleets of determined early risers on the strength of sheer speed. Once the spot where a runner chooses to throw down his or her tarp is reached, the contest shifts to a more ethically complex one. Border disputes may flair up as hastily thrown down tarps overlap and winded runners panic at the prospect of losing the hard earn fruits of their race. All discussion or argument wastes precious seconds as more runners relentlessly fill in from behind, tossing tarps at the heels of the disputants. On the second day's tarp run one of our runners came close to actual physical conflict over a territorial conflict and hard feelings were only allayed hours later after a judiciously gifted spliff.
Our turf is staked with a blue plastic square. Now non-numbered campers bearing folding chairs arrive to guard the perimeter of each claim. The whole lawn is buzzing as we stand in jubilation and look out on the spoils of the day, surrounded by dozens of others celebrating the same. The music, crisp from the speaker towers on either side of the stage, has changed from Rossini to a light hearted sound check romp written to the tune of Mr. Sandman. Beyond the arena, and relentlessly for 360 degrees a thin air crystaline view of the San Juan mountains lifts every spirit. High fives are exchanged as we acknowledge that our goal has been met and it's still only 9:30 in the morning, with the day's music still to come. Time to grab a beer, study the schedule of performers and swap tales of today's adventure. Even now, on the domino outskirts of the main stage area tarps are being thrown down, but for us, stage right, at 8600 feet, the die has been cast.
