Music Tuesday: 08/02/1998 – Happy Anniversary to My First Phish ShowAugust 4, 2009
Sunday marked the eleven-year anniversary of my first Phish show. So, I thought I’d take a moment to celebrate the occasion by telling you about that show, as I experienced it. Your first Phish show basically sets the stage for all the rest you go to after it, defines the perspective by which you perceive all that follow. And it is generally accepted that you can’t really understand Phish until you see them live. As my friend, The Goat, can tell you from his recent experience in Camden-you can listen to Phish for 13 years, but feel like you don’t quite “know” until you finally see them for the first time, 13 years later.
For my money, this show represents what I love most about Phish. Tension and release, peaks and valleys, quiet then loud then quiet, segues, teases, covers, songs I’d heard before, songs I’d never heard before (at this point, I’d heard only a small percentage of their catalog, mostly from albums, so there was still so much discovery ahead, ah, things were so fresh then, so young), dissonant and difficult to listen to, beautiful and flowing, fun and bouncy, dark and haunting. It was all here in this show. And this was back when they basically didn’t make mistakes. Especially Trey. Notes weren’t missed. Everything sounded like it was all worked out backstage before hand, and yet, as if it was all coming from that moment in time. I don’t know how they do this, but they do.
At the time that I saw this, I’d been listening to them about two years. But not religiously. I was kind of a fan. But really, I was a big Dave Matthews Band fan. I hadn’t been hooked yet. That would all change the moment they walked out on stage, picked up and climbed into their respective instruments, and without saying so much as a word, sauntered into the opening notes of Roggae.
Here’s the setlist from Phish.net:
1: Roggae, The Divided Sky, The Horse > Silent in the Morning, Too Much of Everything, Boogie On Reggae Woman, Reba*, Weigh, Birds of a Feather (1:10)
2: Possum, Ghost -> Lifeboy > David Bowie^, I Get Kick Out of You^^, Loving Cup (1:03)
E: Harry Hood+, Bittersweet Motel (0:18)
#Played several times. *With whistling. ^With “Possum” and “Divided Sky” teases. ^^First time played (Cole Porter cover from “Anything Goes”; made famous by Mel Torme; also performed by Frank Sinatra, Ethel Merman, et. al.); Mike on vocals (introduced by Trey as “Captain Gactain”). +With glowsticks, and “Ramble On” (Led Zeppelin) tease by Mike..
Some people might tell you Roggae was a weak way to start a show. To this day, I maintain it is a perfect opening. It was so understated, so quiet, so matter of fact. As if the band were saying, “Okay, we’re here. Now listen carefully. We aren’t going to do all the work for you”. I was immediately struck by the shifting back and forth between different members of Phish singing different parts of the song. That feeling of sharing, which is so evident at shows, came through immediately in their music.
Then the chorus. “If life were easy, and not so fast, I wouldn’t think about the past”. Wham! Like being slapped in the face with slimy, scaly reality. Phish shows will do that to you. With a single line in a song, they can make you think about where you are at that moment, what’s led to this, where it is all going, where it all is at that moment. The way they sang this, their voices entwining together into a single chorus, in one moment, one snap of the fingers, it all changed for me. “Ah, now I understand” I said to myself. “Now I get what all the fuss is about”. Everything blended together. Everything connected. Into one great whole.
THE DIVIDED SKY
Trey slowly strummed the final notes of Roggae, paused for a moment of silence, then ripped into the opening chords of The Divided Sky. Imagine 15,000 people all erupting at once into dance and scream, while at the same time, inside yourself, you feel that same eruption of dance and scream. That’s what happened when they blasted into this song. It may have been aided a little by the fact that, going in, this was one of my favorite songs. It was nice to get it so early in the show, to hear something that by itself could take me somewhere nicer, better, happier.
But that it erupted out of such a quiet, delicate song, into this explosion of energy made it all the more perfect. More perfect still since it captured where I was starting to realize I had been, was, and was heading. The words are simply “The divided sky and the wind blows high”. Then came about 14 or so more minutes of composed “Type I” jamming, peaks, valleys, builds, releases, like four boulders tumbling and turning down a mountainside, in perfect unison. I looked around at all of this dancing, pulsating movement, and saw myself as a single cell in a 15,000 person organism jumping and pulsating, too, in perfect unison. For 15 minutes. Until the final boom boom boom BEEYOOO of the final note, that Trey absolutely nailed, which for me, is crucial for the success of the whole song, that final note. Just two songs in, and already I was “there”.
THE HORSE>SILENT IN THE MORNING
Back to quiet, valley, a stillness that followed release. “It’s time I sling the baskets off this overburdened horse, sink my toes into the ground, and set a different course”. Indeed.
I haven’t really been able to gauge since this night where people stand on Horse>Silent these days. Very good songs, but never monster jams, yet still better than a lot of their slow songs. Whatever the case, this was my first, and they had been to this point among my favorite songs. Tonight, with those opening lines, it felt all the more poignant. Third song in, and I was going to get another of the songs I really liked. Significant given that their catalog contains hundreds of songs, so the probability is never high.
“The target that I shoot for seems to move with every breath”. I was at this concert, 24, young, uncertain which way to go in life, and that line captured my frustration perfectly. No matter what I had tried, everything always changed, and was just out of reach.
When I went to this show, to be honest, I felt lost in my life, worried I wouldn’t find my way. I was considering picking up everything, and moving from Indianapolis to California, to try and make it through some connections I had in L.A. And, things were going quickly awry for me in Indy. I was at a crossroads, wondering whether or not a move across the country was really the right move for me, especially since I would be leaving behind all of the people I went to this show with. I came into this show with a lot of uncertainty in the forefront of my mind. And, a lot of that had to do with being very unsure who I was, who I had wanted to be, and where I stopped and my views of what other people wanted me to be began. What could I control, and what simply was?
But Silent isn’t a song about uncertainty. It is about being filled with hope, about coming out of the metaphorical dream (or illusion) of uncertainty that is the rest of the album “Rift“, the album Silent appears on, into hopefulness from finally waking up. And no one else on this planet could give it what Page gives it. “You’re silent in the morning, suspended in the trees, lunchtime comes, you find your voice, it brings me to my knees”. I couldn’t help but imagine, and at this point in my life want to feel, being overcome by the image in my head of experiencing this kind of certainty the song speaks of, this deep love and clarity, so overwhelming it brings you to your knees.
TOO MUCH OF EVERYTHING
Blammo, into a straight forward rocker they’ve only played twice in their history. Yet, poignant, especially after the emotional overhaul of those first four songs. “Too much of anything ain’t good for nobody, you better believe it, baby”. Right. Absolutely correct. This is a goofy, playful song, for sure. But, in its goofy simplicity, it somehow manages to blithely say, “Relax, man, and just don’t overdo it”. In a way, this is what Phish shows are all about. Unwind from the daily grind. But don’t hurt yourself in the process. Yet, on the other side of this, they are also saying, “Don’t overdo the daily grind, either”. A well-timed song, for my taste. I needed some fun at this point, after all the thinking thinking thinking.
BOOGIE ON REGGAE WOMAN
Yeah, the Stevie Wonder song. Only, at the time, I didn’t know it was a Stevie song until my friend, Josh, who was a walking encyclopedia of everything record in the 1970s, said it was. This was my first real exposure to the funky side of Phish. I wasn’t yet aware of the big funk renaissance they had gone through in ’97. So, my first taste. It would help set off a chain reaction in me that would point me to The Meters, Herbie Hancock, The Greyboy All-Stars, and many more. This song made everyone move totally differently from the frantic way we’d all flailed along to the other higher energy songs to this point. Interesting, I thought. Funk. Stevie Wonder. Who knew it could make THIS happen?
They did one of their quickstop segues, dropping the end of a jam and immediately picking up the next song. In this case, Reba. Fantastic. Another of my favorite songs. Just seven songs in, and I’d already gotten four of my favorites.
I love Reba because you get two sides of Phish that I don’t really see in other bands. First, the wacko oddball, with lyrics about this woman named Reba who is making animpossible elixir out of ingredients including, “a pot of melted wax, a forefoot and a hoof, apple core, worms galore, and a can of some corrosive, coconuts and chloroform, some wicker and some cork, toxic waste, some purple paste, she hoped was not explosive”-to methis is a level of verbal imagery brilliance I can only aspire to and likely never attain in my own writing. The writer in me delights in this writing. To me, most other bands are boring. Same old recycled words, recycled ideas. Not here. Not Reba.
Second, you follow all of this silliness with ten minutes of jamming. First, a very complex overlapping of instruments in a Type I style for several minutes (nobody can nail a tight, complex composition like Phish can), which then thumps into a laid back jamming for the rest of the ten minutes, showing just how beautiful Phish can be when they aren’t awash in silliness, craziness, or darkness.
Experiencing their ability to fire on all composed cylinders live gave it a much bigger feel than on the album. Their compositions became three dimensional live. And the way they slid so easily from composition to improvisation was incredible to experience when it was happening right in front of me.
And then they snapped out of the jam, with the whole band whistling a few measures, as they occasionally do in the song, then back into the chorus to close out the song. This was unlike anything I had ever experienced sitting in a room with my stereo on, playing a Phish album. Having them push a song so far away from being recognizable, only to stop on a dime, all four members at once, ten minutes later and pick up the song as if it had never gone anywhere, right in front of me, was unbelievable. It was like some kind of sleight of hand, like they’d just made a skyscraper disappear and reappear with the snap of their fingers.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Phish very rarely plays Weigh. Of my 22 shows, this is the only one I have seen it in. But of course, at my first show, they would play another of the songs that had that mix of humor and musicianship that I think separates them from the rest. “I’d like to cut your head off so I can weight it, waddya say?” For me, this line was like a kind of absurd, almost Buddhist koan, way of beginning a song, absurd in a way that helps keep people like me from getting too stuck in reality. Lovely. And later, “I’d like to hear my options, so I can weigh them. Waddya say?”
Again, this motif of life, its options, its directions, its choices, its possibilities, its crossroads, its questions. Aren’t we really always standing at a fork in the road of our own choose-your-own-adventure game? Which way do I go? (It’s a wonder they didn’t play Maze, given all of this self-examination).
Thank you for playing Weigh at my first show, Phish. I really appreciate it.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
I’d never heard this one before. But somehow the frenetic rhythm and melodies of this song, and the fear and paranoia of the lyrics-“birds of a feather are flocking outside”-sounded to me, the way it was sung, like there was this huge gathering of people outside getting bigger, waiting for its chance to storm the gates, run through the hallways of the castle, claw and skewer everything in sight. (Or perhaps, metaphorically speaking, all of the anxieties we had been suppressing through denial this whole time were on the verge of being impossible to hold down any longer.) And the music made everyone dance like they were some kind of crazy bird monsters, just making it all the more frightening.
I’d never really experienced a set break before. Every other concert had always just been three hours of straight playing. I was a little confused by suddenly having about 45 minutes to sit, unwind, breath, process, still myself. But I realized I needed it. This set ended with me on edge. In fact, I looked around, and got the sense that we all needed the break. Phish seemed to know this (after 22 concerts, I’ve concluded that they are conscious of almost everything they are doing). Plus, looking back on this show, I realized that setbreaks helped give character to the concerts. Like two chapters, neat little packages, which take on their own life. Independent from one another, yet connected by their proximity, giving the show its own character by having two distinct yet connected parts joining to form a larger whole. Cells dividing, yet still working together to form an organism. Ah, the places your mind will go when you have down time, and you are waiting, hoping, desperating for the music to begin.
It was right about at the moment when I couldn’t take any more setbreak that the lights fell once again, the roar of the crowd erupted, we were back on our feet, ready for more, and the band set off for another hour of leading us through just short of too much of everything.
After finishing the first set on such a paranoid note (in my opinion), Phish released the tension of that, and the maddeningness of the setbreak, with really one of their goofiest songs. I mean, seriously: “I was ridin’ down the road one day. Someone hit a possum. Someone hit a poSSUM! The road was his end, his end was the road!” It was kind of hard to not just laugh. Loudly. What were we, four years old? But, in this context, it made so much sense. We’d come here to play, so why not tap into our inner children?
“There ain’t no truth in action. ‘Less you believe in it anyway.” Wait, there was another one of those, “Stop and think about what’s real and what’s really just your doing?” moments. I felt like Phish was trying to say something. Perhaps directly to me.
Possum segued into Ghost, a song unlike anything I had ever heard before this night. And, I’d never really grasped this idea of making a seemless musical transition from one song to another. Interesting. But more interesting was this song Ghost. Music wasn’t played this way. Not as far as I knew. It was like discovering a new continent. It was haunting. Rhythmic, but with a lot of space in between each note, all of this… space. Everything sounded very calculated, exacted. This was what people meant when they have talked about silence being what gives music its real character and power, I thought. And underneath all of this was this weird little whistling sound that echoed, a pattern, as if it had been a recorded loop that they would play over. Like, they were saying, underneath all of this, there is something else, happening on its own, some pattern to everything. Interesting.
“I feel I’ve never told you the story of the ghost that I once knew and talked to….” I ran this through my head again and again, and it spooked me more every time. This was a cool feeling. To hear a line for the first time, from a song so different and haunting than anything I had ever heard before, and every time it ran through my head, that line, it just got spookier. And lonelier. A ghost, something from the past, that “I” talked to, held onto, never told anyone about.
Hard not to notice the many metaphorical parallels, again, to this show.
Even lovelier that the lyrics gave way to another 15 minutes of jam that explored the music space that this song had created by its very nature. It was in Ghost that I had my first experience of disappearing so deeply into a song that it became something other than the original song, its own unique journey, where at one point I thought, “Wait, what song is this again?” What I liked so much about this moment was that I also realized that the reason I couldn’t remember it was that I had essentially gone somewhere during the song. I had become a kind of stream of consciousness, in which I’d stopped focusing on the song itself, and as it turned into something else, I disappeared too, into that same place I disappeared into when I would stop thinking about what I was writing, and the writing just comes out of me. It was like a trance. Self-awareness stopped, and I simply became whatever came through me. I began to mentally improvise just as they musically improvised, and wasn’t thinking about the fact that I was thinking in this way, which made it flow unhindered, unbarricaded, free.
I think this experience is basically what Buddhists, Taoists, and others of their ilk describe when they talk about transcendence, and how we become something bigger, more connected to ourselves and what is around us, more natural, less forced. Experiences like these are why I can go to 22 shows and still want to go to more. It’s why I can listen to the same live recordings of Phish shows again and again, and why I can listen to a new show with the same songs, just to listen for the same moment when they would disappear into the song, and lose myself yet again. The same way I did at this first show.
The long fifteen minute Ghost jam segued into Lifeboy, the exact right song at the exact right moment, given what was happening to me. The energy and driving force gave way to the softness of Lifeboy, a song that on the surface could merely seem a somewhat cliche questioning of God. “But God never listens to what I say. God never listens to what I say. And you don’t get a refund if you overpray”.
We’ve heard lines like these before. Kinda cutesy, kinda clever. But questioning whether or not God listens to us isn’t all that new. Easy to pass off as passe.
But, then you take a second moment with the opening lyrics. “Swinging on the lifeline, fraying bits of twine, entangled in the remnants of the not I left behind, and asking you to make it finally unwind”.
And, after the chorus, “And when the line is breaking, and when I’m near the end. When all the time spent leading I’ve been following instead. When all my thoughts and memories are left hanging by a thread”.
I hadn’t really been a big fan of Lifeboy up to this point. But, hearing it at that moment, with all that was happening with me in my life outside of this concert, and all that was running through me during this concert, Lifeboy hit me smack in the face. This concert wasn’t just a show, it wasn’t just fun. Phish was clearly guiding me through the process of working something out.
Then the repetitive high hat intro to David Bowie began. I’d always kind of liked David Bowie. But, I also really had to make a bathroom run. So, I chose one of Phish’s absolutely craziest, most energized in which to do it. My run couldn’t have been more perfectly timed.
The energy and disjointed madness of the structure of the song made everyone dance with their arms and legs flailing in all directions. No one moved in congruence with anyone else. A gap opened, and immediately closed. Another gap opened, then closed. There was no space to move through for longer than about half a second. Just a sea of flailing arms and legs and bodies bending and ripping in all directions. How the hell was I going to make my way through this? I’d stop, look, think, try to decide, fail, taking too long to act. It wasn’t till I gave in, stopped thinking, moved to the music, and danced my way through the crowd that it not only stopped hurting my head like an impossible logic puzzle, but that a flow took over, and it became… fun. So, I danced my way down the lawn, into the concrete between the lawn and the pavilion, down the walkway, contorting my way through arms and legs, all the way to the bathroom area. If you drew a line of my path from an overhead view, there would not have been any moment in which more than two consecutive steps would have formed a straight line.
On my way back, something occurred to me that probably should have before I’d left. I wasn’t really sure where my group had been standing during the show. Somewhere on the lawn. Fortunately on this side of the center. Somewhere half way up the lawn, maybe? In those many thousands of people, all flailing? Nothing about this lawn was still, everything was in a constant state of motion. No bearings could be found. They were in there somewhere, and I had no idea if I could find them.
I climbed up onto the lawn, stood at the edge, and turned back toward the stage to enjoy the rest of Bowie. There was no way I was going to find my way back as long as this maelstrom was still under way. And, at this point, we’d reached the song’s zenith, when all mayhem had cut loose. Here I was. Lost. A bit nervous. A bit alone. With a lot of concert left.
This Bowie, by the way, is still my favorite I have heard to date. It’s strong, high energy, and they nail all of the compositions, which is key to any Bowie. But it is this version’s zenith that defines it for me, when Trey pulls some musical trickery that I still don’t quite understand how someone can do. There are these moments in Bowie, these little peaks, where the music has been written to stop, with a pause, like in a horror movie, where everything is quiet just to set up the sudden lashing out from the shadows. Usually, in these moments, there is just silence, followed by a snap back into the climbing crescendo and maelstrom of the song. But, during this Bowie, Trey filled these silences with teases from other songs. Pause, guitar line from The Lizards (which I wouldn’t hear for the first time until 2000, so I didn’t recognize it yet). Maelstrom, pause, guitar line from Divided Sky. Maelstrom, pause, guitar line from Possum.
Amazing how a human can being can switch gears in a high octane song like that.
Climax, song ends, crowd erupts. Now to find my friends.
I GET A KICK OUT OF YOU
Conveniently, Phish quieted the flailing down with this Cole Porter tune, made famous by Sinatra and Mel Torme, so I could take a look back to see if anyone looked familiar. Nothing. Nothing. Just faces. Faces. Faces. Then I spotted this middle-aged man with black skin and a grey beard, but more importantly, dressed in bright colored red and green and yellow African garb. Or so I remembered it. I’d seen him before, just a few people in front of my friends, earlier in the show. A ha! I headed right for him, and made it back into the fold of my group, heart racing, sigh of relief, tension followed by release.
I wasn’t really a Sinatra fan at this point, but I was getting quite into jazz at the time. When Phish played this, everything changed for me. I fell in love with this style of jazz, and had to get me some Frank. For the next fear years, I’d wear out my Frank collection, thanks to Phish. Incidentally, they’d also made me a Stevie Wonder fan that night, too. Anyone who says that bands are stealing from other bands when they play their music don’t get that really it’s just free advertising. In the Phish scene, I’ve noticed that people tend to hear a cover then go check out the original band. Free advertising.
I’d never heard this song before, and didn’t know till much later that it was a Rolling Stones cover. In fact, I was heading down the highway in my car months later when the Stones’ version would come out of my radio and almost startle me into a gruesome car accident. I’ve heard this song end several sets and shows since, and have grown rather tired of it. But, that night, at that moment, it was the perfect way to end the second set of what would be a turning point in my life. That first time, it seemed to say what needed to be said. “Oh, what a beautiful buzz, what a beautiful buzz”. This whole night had been a huge journey, both in music, and in my own life. And as we reached the end of this second set, it was all starting to come together for me, filling me with a buzz I hadn’t felt before, and have lived for ever since.
I think it was in Loving Cup when something important hit me. A phrase ran through my head that put into words a realization I was in the process of having that night. I’d spent so much of that concert both enjoying an absolutely unbelievable musical moment by a band that was telling a story not in a random collection of songs, but in an ebbing and flowing, thematic, larger than the sum of its parts, composition made up of musical movements that look on the surface like individual songs. At the same time, I was, whether I’d wanted to or not, trying to figure something out about myself, something big, important, some obstacle terrorizing my view. And then, things clicked into place, and this phrase came into my head, as I looked around, saw everyone moving, all part of some larger organism, each of them a friend in some way, peaceful, safe, no risks, no threats, never completely alone, never completely lost, 15,000 people all on the same collective wavelength that I was now a part of.
“The irony of trying to find a sense of self in a crowd like this”.
I smiled, and I think, I even laughed out loud, though inaudible below the volume of the concert. Everything that had seemed so important before seemed so trivial now. What mattered was this moment, this transcendence, this place I could go where everything made sense on its own, where I didn’t have to force things, where everything just happened, and as it happened, it happened much more beneficially and efficiently than I could probably have accomplished had I sat and thought long and hard about “how do I do this? How? How? How?” Here I was, just another freak in the freak kingdom. My self wasn’t gone, but rather was a self connected to a gathering of selfs all with the same basic purpose, same basic mind, same basic struggles, same basic releases, all enjoying this moment for the same basic reasons.
There’s something really amazing about feeling connected to something outside of yourself. And I think that is largely what I was hearing in so many of these songs Phish played that night. It all fit together perfectly. Almost as if it had been created for me. But, I could also see how it had been created, too, for everyone else. Which is why I thought it was so funny that I would spend so much time trying so hard to find a sense of self in a crowd of people I could see I was now so deeply connected to.
The opening bass, and immediately I was taken back to the very beginning, my first real association with Phish that I will carry with me to the end. Harry Hood (the version from “A Live One“) is the song my friend, Justin-who is the person who introduced me to Phish, and the reason for almost everything musical in my life-played again and again when we would hang out at Albion College. Every time I hear Hood, I go back to that “place”. That is how strong the connection is for me. It made too much sense that they would encore with Hood, given that. It was like they were saying to me, “We know that coming into this show, there was no song more ‘Phish’ to you than Hood'”. Thus, there was no choice. They HAD to play it.
And something happened during this song that I would never have seen coming, that no one had prepared me for. In the pavilion, in the thick of Chris Kuroda’s lights (which I haven’t talked about at all, but were also a revelation this night, and probably deserve their own post. Thank you, Chris Kuroda, for bringing such light into the world), people started throwing glowrings and glowsticks in the air, toward other areas within the pavilion. Then came hundreds. Thousands. Red. Blue. Green. Purple. Yellow. A rainbow of colors. Dots of light flinging in all directions, collectively forming a rainbow dome of flying light dots. This was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And no one had said, “By the way, there are these things called ‘glowring wars‘ at Phish shows”. I cannot capture in words the rush of delight that filled me in this moment. It was so beautiful and so ephemeral. It made all the tension worth this moment of release.
Watching these videos gives a sense of what glowring wars are like:
- Video 1 – Better for the effect of light dots flying through the night
- Video 2 – Switch it into HD mode
Wanting to experience this again became another pull that explains my 22 shows (so far).
Hood itself was a fitting song. It started out fun and playful, almost like a child. Then, it hit that point where things get very intense, dark, frustrated, loud, much like hitting puberty. Then, somewhere later in the 15 minutes of this song, everything released into a peaceful, tranquil, perhaps, revelation. Like someone finally come out of a period of great uncertainty (and is there nothing more uncertain than puberty through to your early 20s?). Ultimately into the lines, “You can feel good, you can feel good, good about Hood”. To me, the emphasis here was on “You can feel good”, like they were saying, “It’s okay, you can let yourself feel this way,” even though on the surface they were just borrowing a slogan from Hood milk.
And, just as the show had begun without a bang, but a whisper, so it ended with the song Bittersweet Motel, the perfect quiet bookend. Maybe I’m the only person in the world who felt this way, but this was the right way to gently set us back on planet earth.
Bittersweet, so perfectly named given the double edged nature of the night, summarizing it in just a few simple words. “When the only tool you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail”. Exactly. It all comes down to perspective. Everything is going to look a certain way if you only look at it from one angle. I felt like this was a great way for Phish to say, “We just showed you another way you can look at things. If you are still going to look at it the way you have been, well then, that is your doing. That is up to you. In the meantime, but this has been another one”.
Leaving the concert, it hit me that we had a few miles to walk to get back to our campground. And, since we’d come to the venue in daylight, and now darkness had changed perspective completely, I wasn’t really sure how to get back. I was for all intents and purposes lost. But, instead of feeling any sort of worry or panic, as might have happened so naturally before, I remembered back to that moment when I was lost during the concert, had let go of worry, and found my way back. I remembered the beginnings of panic I’d felt, how that all drifted away when I let go, and how easily I found my way.
In this moment, walking back to camp, with my friends, I let go of that fear of the unknown, and instead, learned how to enjoy being lost.