The madness began early afternoon. Like an unseen typhoon, Mike Marshall (a multi-instrumentalist who used to play with David Grisman) and Chris Thile (a 20-year-old mandolin prodigy from the band, Nickel Creek) took their stools and laid a fire to the fairgrounds that never smoldered.

Thile is considered one of the best mandolin players in the world. His age defies the wizened fingers that know every filament of the mandolin string. Marshall is quite the badass himself. His weapons are many, my favorite being his hybrid mandolin and cello (the real name escapes me at the moment). The chemistry between the two was follicle-raising. It was just two mandolins, and yet, they filled up the Box Canyon with more sweetness than a valley of honey. I’ve seen a lot of acoustic mastery, but nothing came close to this duo.

I was just catching my first breath in two hours when the Yonder Mountain String Band plucked their hello. Young pups compared to the rest of the performers, Yonder mixes improv and bluegrass with a healthy mix of humor and subtle dose of heavy metal. Dancing is contagious. Sitting still only works if you’re not there.

It was about halfway through Yonder’s set that the elements of nature began to two-step with the dancers. Mandolin and singer Jeff Austin started the whole tiff with Mother Nature. During one song (the name again escapes me, Telluride is an assailer of photographic memories) Jeff began to dare the weather to roll off the San Juans and fill the rowdy canyon. On cue, dark clouds rolled into Telluride with a pushy wind as its red carpet. Rain appeared minutes later, creating a brief pause and relief from the drought and fires that were plaguing Colorado. Smoke had come from miles away to taint the sky, but the grey clouds pushed them out for a brief respite from the catastrophic reminder. Yonder’s playing got faster, the rain grew thicker, and the yee-haws (usually reserved for the Southern neck of the woods) got harder.

If Yonder brought the storm, then Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt brought the rainbow. The rain had made me thankful, and seeing two of the greatest divas alive brought me to my knees. Sporting locks of silver hair, Emmylou had a voice that was derived from the same precious element. Her lush voice commanded the clouds away, and by the time she introduced Linda, a rainbow materialized, forming a prism bridge between two peaks.

“I would like to thank the lighting director,” Emmylou halfway joked right before the king of Telluride, Sam Bush, came on stage alongside folk heroes, Buddy and Julie Miller. The highlight was Ronstadt stepping up to the mic and belting out Bob Dylan’s “Tom Thumb Blues” like it was her own.

When I’m on my dying bed and my dusty brain recollects every vision, the Emmylou set will be my comfort.

So how could it get any better than that? Two words. Bela Fleck. Grand ruler of the banjo, and leader of the Flecktones, a jazz quartet featuring Victor Wooten on bass (who many claim to be the best in the world), sax player Jeff Coffin, and the very interesting Futureman. The latter swears he’s from the distant future (although his sailor outfit beckons a past era), and he plays an instrument called the Drumitar. This unique instrument was built by Futureman and somehow the uncanniness of it all works.

If there are harsh words between jazz and bluegrass, the rivalry is nullified when the Flecktones perform. Bela’s willingness to explore new realms leans towards jazz, but underneath the slickness is a dirty banjo begging for sweaty hoedown. The tightness and clever arrangements dismantle any brain that tries to figure out the Flecktone’s logic. One can only buckle in and enjoy the ride. Since the Flecktones were at a bluegrass festival, it only seemed appropriate to bring Sam Bush on again (this would be a reoccuring theme all weekend). My mental capacity was already oozing out my ears when Sam plugged in. If anyone rivals (or topples) Bela, it’s Sam. At one point, Bush’s mandolin was in exact rhythm coordinates with Wooten’s threading bass. The twining drove the festivarians to the brink of lunacy. Arms, feet, dust, and tossed debris created a swirl around the performers.

Just when the sound reached a fever pitch, the full moon ducked out from behind the canyon to see what all the ruckus was about. 10,000 strong said hello back, each vocal cord morphing into a howl. Bela and Sam barely noticed that their audience had lycanthroped into baying coyotes.

The Flecktone’s two-hour set ended before it began, and everyone was left blissfully confused and awash in the moon’s glow. The closer of the night was a band called Cake, an “alternative” rock funk band from Sacramento. Not your usual slot filler for a bluegrass fest, Cake came in like they owned the place. The lead singer threw politcal commentaries and salty language amidst a sonic fusion of jangle pop, tight guitars, and a trumpet player full of sneaky grooves. Song titles like “Sheep Go to Heaven/Pigs go to Hell” and “Shut the F### Up” had the stauch fans grumbling, but I was blown away. Although their sounds are somewhat entrenched in radioland, no one could deny the musicianship or the cerebral songwriting. Sam and Bela must have agreed because they became a portion of the Cake halfway through the set. The bluegrass through the day was incredible, but it was nice to have an apertif like Cake.

I should have bedded down after an intense day, but the campground was pulsing. Pickers who had watched the big dogs all day busted out their midnight instruments for campfire jams. Kirstie and I got caught up in the troubadour fracas. Sheepish at first, I stood on the outside circle like a timid mouse peering at forbidden cheese. It wasn’t long before I was handed a kazoo and an egg shaker. I turned professional within five minutes. That was the beauty of the whole thing. No matter how off-key, all-thumbed, or rhythm deaf a person was, the jam circle was always open. Our little group from Jackson Hole was busting with talent. Mary Eliza, Sue, and Michelle all had the platinum throats. Justin and Josh could play any requested song and lay a mean pick down beside it (Justin lead alot of the campfire jams that attracted some of the main stage biggies). And, John, the elder statesman of our tarp acreage, was a wizard on the mandolin. If a sound had something missing, John was brought in to provide the caulk.

Needless to say, the dawn told us to pack our instruments away and rest for a fleeting period. It wasn’t even Saturday yet.

The weather on Saturday was as unforgiving as my sleep-deprived body. Word had spread around camp that Emmylou and Linda were playing free at Elk’s Park, a tiny park in Telluride. At the same time, Bela and Edgar Meyer were on the main stage. I missed them all. The dust, the sun’s unrelenting rays (they become quite obtrusive at 9,000 feet) and desire for a Bloody Mary sent (our new friend) Seth, Kirstie and me for a dark bar where the music couldn’t find us. I had OM’d (over musiced), and I still had the major heavyweights — David Grisman, Nanci Griffith, Sam Bush — to contend with.

Licking my wounds (in private) I then concrete-stepped to and from the stage to pay my respects to Grisman and Griffith. Yes, they were incredible, but my voltage was spent.

That is, until Sam Bush strode on stage around dusk. A quick word about Mr. Bush. I don’t believe he knows what an ego is. He was called the King of Telluride all weekend but he was more like the gracious jester. A constant ham, he never seems to take himself seriously. It’s like the mandolin is some tight-assed elder that forces him to fly right. Whatever it is, the sounds that bubble from his fiddle and mandolin are inspirational. Fatigue left my body the second his band put a note in the air. The band went through the favorites — “Watson Allman,” “Same Old River” — each one eclipsing the next in heat potential. Emmylou stepped aboard and was followed by David Grisman. Then the moon made an encore appearance. Now seasoned in howls, we all barked our welcome, and Sam took notice.

“You like to howl do ya?,” the madman asked behind a stage of steam. “Well, I got the song for you!!”

Crowd favorite “Howl at the Moon” followed and the place went nuts. Sam Bush was king for a reason, and we the faithful flock made sure that he knew that his title was secure for another season.

The rest of his set was a blur. My memory had been thrashed by a sinsister mandolin that could call the moon at will. All I remember is that Leftover Salmon came next. The title they give themselves is Polyethnic Cajun Slamgrass, and I have to say the label is right on the money.

Everyone at the fest was rooting for Salmon. One of the founders, banjo player Mark Vann had passed away earlier in the year after a long battle with skin cancer. The festival was dedicated in his memory, and Salmon played like Mark was in the front row. Politically-singed originals (“Hey , Woody Guthrie, Where Are You?”) and continuing odes to Bob Dylan (mandolin played Drew Emmit sings “Tangled Up in Blue”) marked Salmon’s set. Punching in overtime, Sam Bush lended his wares, and Peter Rowan came out for his personally-penned tune, “Rainmaker.” Shamanic in every sense, “Rainmaker” was my highlight song of the weekend. Legends around Telluride talk about the Ute Indians believing that the mining town was cursed. The energy, they believed, was too high for anyone to reside in Telluride. I could feel that rush during “Rainmaker.” There must have been 10 of 15 musicians begging to the clouds for a little wet stuff. Rowan’s voice carried through every person as the music continued to build like a stable Jenga. My mind kept falling back to the Utes, the energy now so obvious that I expected the grounds to be filled with the spirits of old. Maybe even Mark Vann was in there somewhere.

Saturday late night was the twin of Friday — late night jam circles, musicians created through egg and kazoo, and the morning sun to tell us our graveyard shift was over.

I wish I knew more about Sunday. I would look at Kirstie’s sunken face and know that I was looking at a mirror. Trying to be recreational warriors, we did our best to see the remaining music. Sam Bush and David Grisman dueled for an hour as my eyelids did the drape dance. Tim O’ Brien and his Irish band, The Crossing, reminded me of mammoth banks full of emerald grass ... and how much I would have liked to lie in some.

We actually found a reserve of energy for Lucinda Williams. A gritty songwriter (I found her to be a female version of Bob Dylan), Williams personifies the songs she writes about. Sporting sunglasses (at dusk), a black t-shirt, and rumpled blonde locks, Williams was one tough mama (although her delight at being at Telluride revealed a flurry of smiles behind those dark rims). Straight up rock-n-roll with stellar songwriting (her album, “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” won WNCW’s best album in 1999) Williams got even the hard line bluegrassers to tip their hats.

Then came Dr. Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys. It was like doing an audio tour of a bluegrass museum. Ralph has been doing bluegrass for almost 60 years, and his contributions inspired Bill Clinton to bestow Stanley with the title of “living legend.”

Whatever foot-stomping we had left, Dr. Ralph and his crew made sure we expended it all.

During his song, “Oh, Death” (from the soundtrack, “Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou”), I felt the choking tendrils of weariness. The song was talking to my physicality, a metaphor for my sinking shape.

The set was classy, rollicking, and as entertaining as anything I saw all weekend. But, I was grateful when the last note and the final applause had wafted out of the Box Canyon.

Sunday night was sad because it was a farewell affair. The sound of tents and tarps rolling up wore heavy on my heart, and I felt lumps in my throat as I tried to bid farewell to people I had just met four days ago.

I was beaten, dirty, and deeply somber. However, my brain could think of only one thing — “Say, Hunter, my soily chap. Is it too early to get in line for next year’s Tarp Run?”