Virtual Saskatchewan

story and photography by Kira Yanko

After peering down into the valley at the creek that zig-zags through the boreal forest just outside the west boundary of Prince Albert National Park, I turn back up the path to the busy happenings of the music festival that Ness Creek inspired some 17 years ago. As I walk into a bend in the rutted trail, listening to the deep, rumbling bass guitar riff, I encounter a small group of teenagers who deliberately block my way. With outstretched fists and eyes glowing with excitement, they ask me to "punch-out for Ness Creek spirit!''

Clearly they, too, feel a tingle in their spines and the energy in the air. As festival co-founder Kathy Sproule puts it: "There's something about this place, something sacred about it.''

Music's the thing at Ness, but there's much more.

Apple-seed necklace, headscarves and tickets all packed, we headed north the day earlier to the annual Ness Creek Music Festival near Big River, about three hours north of Saskatoon. We rolled through the gates at about 7 on a Thursday night in a friend's rusty van that we decorated with painted leaves and stickers while tree planting last summer. It fit right in at Ness.

The entrance road is already lined with people laughing and dancing to the music from the nearby main stage. The gates opened at noon Thursday, but those who know the drill had been waiting since 8 a.m. for a chance to snag one of the campsites with fire pits that are nestled in the trees.

Ness Creek is a folk music festival that not only brings out a younger crowd devoted to environmental sustainability and passionate about the beat, but also older people who experienced the festival scene first-hand in the '60s. They now have kids of their own, and they're all here at Ness.

Since my two friends and I were a little late arriving, we park the old van in a forest clearing and, within an hour, it is completely encircled by other friendly campers. I set up my tent beside the van to give us a little privacy from one sitting area to another. Bas Froese-Kooijenga and his wife own the old pop-top camper van behind us - they're also first timers at Ness. He is originally from Holland and now operates a dairy farm just outside of Saskatoon. We talk about Saskatchewan, from northern lakes to southern sand dunes, and about the kind and generous people he has met since living here. I feel humbled and proud of our province.

The family that bongos together . . . .

There is a warm, inviting feeling radiating through the camping area. People are not simply setting up tents, they are creating unique outdoor living spaces. Several have made their own tipis, while others have invented shelters made entirely of tarps strung through trees. The echo of bongo drums drifts in from a site nearby and I wander over to see a man sitting in a lawn chair with a drum on his lap. A young boy and his slightly older sister are banging away on it, losing themselves in rhythm. He smiles at me and explains that it is their first time at Ness Creek and that the kids are getting into the spirit.

Our campsite is a 15- to 20- minute walk from the main stage area. So, with a backpack full of warm clothes for the chilly evening, I begin the dusk journey. The temperature had already dropped since earlier in the day, when it was over 30 degrees C. The main stage area bustles with people roaming about, chatting in groups, lining up at one of the food vendors or sitting in lawn chairs situated for prime viewing of the stage.

The dance pit, right in front of the stage, is a broad patch of inviting white sand that demands the abandoning of sandals and other footwear, which is strewn on the grassy outskirts of the dance area - the soil here is naturally sandy.

While the music on Thursday night started at 8, I arrive about an hour later, just in time to catch my highlight act of the night: Maybe Smith. That's the stage name of a fellow Saskatonian named Colin Skrapek. His touring band consists mostly of members from another Saskatoon group, Carbon Dating Service. Barefooted people of all ages are, quite literally, dancing up a storm of sand.

The music is as varied as the audience. There are solo folk artists, upbeat new-age rock bands, Johnny Cash covers, beat-boxers, and even a traditional East Indian group called Galitcha. Based in Ottawa, Galitcha is the most unique and refreshing group in the line-up. While their singing and sitar riffs made for a soothing, meditative atmosphere, their horns and drums added a vigorous new-age accent. One member of the band explains that Galitcha means tapestry, as in a weaving together of various influences.

My favorite group of the bunch, however, played Saturday night. The Golden Dogs put on a spit-flying, frantic rock performance full of wild guitar solos and loud keyboard pounding. As part of the show, they erected a music sheet stand laden with a stack of large cards, each bearing a single song title. Every time they launched into a new tune, keyboardist Jessica Grassia "Frisbee'd'' the last song's title off the top of the pile. With little to no stage banter between songs, the audience had no choice but to stay revved up and dancing from start to finish.

But then it was time to do some work.

The backstage area was outfitted with - of all things - 1950s diner booths and patio lanterns, and there were candles and flower settings centred on plastic picnic tablecloths. With a backstage pass hanging around my neck, I poked nervously around this patio area before spotting The Golden Dogs, who were on tour and heading back home to Toronto. With some trepidation - it's my first time playing reporter - I make my way in their direction and introduce myself.

Soon, Neil Quin, guitarist, is explaining that band members loosely planned their tour around Ness and that he, too, was enjoying the bizarre patio set-up. I bet there is nothing quite like a hoppin' outdoor festival show after a series of gloomy basement clubs, and during a heat wave at that. After chatting with Quin for a while I take my leave, remove my reporter's hat, don my sweater to cut the evening chill and return to the other side of the stage to enjoy the music.

One great beach.

I could dress for the cooler evenings, but the midday heat was a bit of a challenge. I was ecstatic to discover a free shuttle service to a beach at the nearby Nesslin Lake. The driver is a Big River resident who's volunteering his time to drive the masses back and forth in his minivan. The beach is gorgeous.

The wide breadth of white sand arcs around a large bay. The clear, cool water is teeming with smiling faces, either playing catch with mini footballs or just floating around. It was a beach party that included families and younger folk, and although all were enjoying themselves, no one was offending anyone's sensibilities. This mutual understanding of differing pastimes fits perfectly within the spirit of Ness.

Kathy Sproule and land-owner Gord Olson created the Ness Creek Music Festival 17 years ago. Kathy and I had earlier discussed the open-mindedness of the people at the festival. She told me Ness Creek has two main values: tolerance and collaboration. Of the 3,000 or so tickets available for the festival, approximately 500 are set aside for volunteers. "You can feel welcome, you can help," is how she put it. It was volunteers who were taking tickets at the front gate and giving directions to the three camping clearings. They explained that the closest camping clearing was next to the main stage, so it was the loudest.

No such thing as too many cooks, at Ness.

While roaming about one afternoon, I came across a camping clearing that contained an old, but clean, shack used as a community kitchen. With Led Zeppelin's Black Dog playing somewhere in the distance, I'm standing for a while near a group of a dozen people hovering around a countertop, learning to make perogies and cabbage rolls.

Across the road, a handful of strangers sit cross-legged under the Sharing Circle tent, a large orange canopy held up by five or six wooden poles. They're just relaxing and chatting. Later, I pass the large drum circle campsite located near the edge of a camping clearning. After a performance by belly dancers, there's a children's story-telling matinee. A woman dressed in raven costume tells a traditional story about the beginning of creation - the raven represents the darkness that preceded all else.

Belly dancin' up a storm.

This is just a sampling of the goings on at Ness. Artistic and cultural events go all day long and serve as an alternative to a lazy day at the beach. While sitting with some friends and new acquaintances near the main stage on Saturday afternoon, a young guy with a worn plaid shirt, long hair and a traveling pack on his back, strolls by playing a didgeridoo. The deep, low tone of the wooden instrument resonates in my chest and he slows to give our little circle a show.

Ambling the other way down the road is a troupe of youngsters, each with a walking stick, headed off on a guided adventure. I recognized the leader of the pack as Doug Lingelbach, whom I met earlier that day. He has been coming to Ness for years now and everyone around seems to know him. He is an arborist and woodcarver, and he has a trailer loaded with some of the pieces he's carved, mostly by chainsaw. Included in his portfolio is a sculpture of an Aboriginal woman with deep wrinkles and wise eyes, an elderly man with face reminiscent of Treebeard in Lord of the Rings, and animal sculptures of a bison and eagle. They attract attention from passers by, one of whom asks Doug to design a piece for her.

The atmosphere of Ness Creek can be vibrant street fair or cozy cup of tea on the couch. As I travel down the two-rut path towards our campsite for a late supper, I'm thinking that all ages seem to understand there is more to this tradition than a weekend escape from the city. One of our campground neighbours had a young daughter who for weeks had been looking forward to wearing the bristle board butterfly costume she made just for Ness.

Head down, meandering in and out of the ruts, I look up to see others my age and, with a knowing smile and nod, we exchange the greeting that's grown in meaning over the last few days: "Happy Ness."

Ah, Ness.