I swore I heard Charles Darwin laughing. He had overtaken the body of Pastor Mustard, a lanky drink of water who’s the annual emcee of the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. The group on stage around him had sadistic grins on their face, much like the ones envisioned after a rousing cock fight. They were there to see us run for our lives for a coveted spot on the lawn. Locals and the courageous call it the Tarp Run, an annual event that places music junkies against each other. Once the 9 a.m. gate is released, it’s a mad scramble for pristine property in front of the pluckers. An errant slip equates into a trampling by a herd of rugged boots or Birkenstock soles.

Why was I risking my neck? Yes, I love music, but not enough to die in the bluegrass trenches. I was suckered (by a dear friend) into making the dash of idiocy across the field. The suckering began innocently the night before.

Somehow in the midst of cocktails, dust storms and elevations’ hallucinations, Kirstie and I were suckered into line duty (much like those poor saps you see camping out for elusive Series tickets). In order to get a close glimpse of the musicians, one must brave the Telluride weather (30 degrees or less during the summer) for a night. We tried to trump out with the “but we’re on our honeymoon” card, but we only succeeded in getting a rouse of chuckles followed by “get in line, newlyweds.”

However, we were sixth in line, and we were serenaded all night by a core of Jackson Hole musicians whom we had the pleasure of camping next to all weekend. Sleep was fitful, but I awoke early and proud that I could contribute to my fellow campers. My duty was done.

“Hold on, slacker,” my friend Mary Eliza exclaimed as she handed me an allergy-filled blanket. “You still have to do the Tarp Run.”

Tarp Run? I looked around the line, seeing desperate eyes hidden above nervous grins. The line thickened like frozen molasses as we were corralled into the starting gate. We came around the bend and in view of the main stage. From the stage I got my first view of Pastor Mustard. His hands seemed to be wringing back and forth in a diabolical manner. Elbows appeared and sweat turned cold as the pastor told us to go for it.

Using tact as an ally, I followed the burliest duo in the bunch. Their mass created a flesh tunnel. By bouncing smaller mortals to the side, they created a human culvert I could jaunt through. It was still tricky. My elbow switch-bladed out to greet a would be passer. The elbow was purely primal. My personality type is “B,” but some caveman mechanism spurred my elbow to create a painful blockade.

I almost didn’t notice the poor sap who fell, inches from my dashing feet. Instinct willed my pedals into a hurdle postion as I lofted over the crumpled (loser) runner. My view was clear. The middle front section became property of the allergy blanket. I high-fived my burly conspirators, and (for a brief moment) felt like a dominant species. I puffed my chest at the lesser tarp layers, laughing at their petty attempt at frontness. I had conquered the Tarp Run. My duty was done for the weekend.

Little did I know that the music would take as much out of me as the “friendly” dash. Each performer ends and starts promptly. The span between acts is minuscule —15 minutes to grab a cold (beer) beverage, discuss the last act, and wolf down whatever leftovers hadn’t been waterlogged by the cooler. By the time Dr. Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys made their appearance Sunday night, I was waving the white flag for sensory surrender.

I blame it all on Robert Randolph and the Family Band. They were the first act I saw on Thursday and they put an octane in my bloodstream that wouldn’t abate for four days. Latticing rock-roll, gospel, R&B, jazz, and funk, Randolph and company turned the fairgrounds into a 10-acre revival. Raised in the Pentecostal Church, the 24-year-old Randolph honed his Sunday Specialty on the pedal steel, aka the sacred steel. If Jimi Hendrix was alive (and Randolph summoned his spirit with “Voodoo Chile”), I believe his brow would be sweat-beaded with jealousy. Even the hardcore bluegrass fans who barely move from their observant seats were making movements that resembled an exorcism.

I felt sorry for whoever had to follow Randolph on the bill. Well, that is until I saw who was next — the Del McCoury Band. Whatever flames Robert left behind, Del and the boys only added white fuel. Perhaps my favorite bluegrass band, they epitomize bluegrass — three-piece duds, request-takers, never-ending smiles, and picking that makes Colorado’s drought look like a water park.

Del (aka the Silver Fox) had that pining voice that made all of us quiver. His son, Ronnie, is a mandolin virtuoso, a titan at his position with some of the cleanest chops in the business. Actually, the whole band is clean, it’s just that listeners gets a nasty look on their faces (kind of like biting into a BBQ Rib drenched in lemon) when the boys set into a hoedown. They were the starting gun for the bluegrass that would unfurl all weekend. Although, the band smiled the whole time, I could tell that their minds were saying, “Alright, bluegrass buddies, try and top that!”

Ben Harper was next. Popular on every radio and girls’ mind, I expected the songwriter/prodigy guitarist to roll into Telluride with a glitter posse. What I got was a very humble man with a tremendous respect for the festival. With homage to all the pickers before him, Harper did a solo acoustic set with only his drummer provoding a backdrop. Mellow in every sense, Harper delicately made his way through one soul-burner after another. The dancing abated as the charisma from stage made 10,000 of us watch in revered silence.

Still feeling the Tarp Run, I snuck back to my tent for the only good night of sleep I would have the whole festival. I believe there was a hidden rule at the campground that fined anyone who had a good night of sleep.

Friday was a burner. Our tent could have cooked a cake by 8 a.m., and we scrambled out of tent for coolness under the shade tarp. Showers were hard to come by. The line was long and it cost $1.50 to have a five minute tease of lukewarm water. Neglecting hygiene, we headed for the waterfall located inside the campground. The icy shower dared whire-chested bravados to take a dip in the glacier fed springs. Most wilt at the challenge. The key was not to think about it. Erase the mind of thought and dive in. Each dipper (including myself) came back with a minor case of hypothermia, a red fleshy beacon that reminds the five-second swimmer that this was not Saturday afternoon pool side.

All around us were white flakes that came off the mountain in a flurry. Discounting snow (the sky was blue and it was already 80 degrees), I surmised that the ash from the fires in Glenwood Springs (80 miles away) had made its way to Telluride. Wrong again. June is the time when all the cottonwood trees bloom in the San Juan Mountains. Tiny puffs of cotton balls no bigger than a horsefly come down the mountain and fill the Telluride with faux snow. The cotton blizzard would remain throughout our stay and they only stopped when we reached the desert climate of Moab.

Anyway, the water unclogged my senses and got me ready for a Friday music lineup that would leave me battered. We battled our way through the cotton storm and into the fairgrounds. It would end up being the most incredible day of music I’ve ever witnessed. (Continued next week.)