Wednesday, September 26th, 2007:
"Oh to live on, Rooney Mountain...with the barkers and the colored balloons!" And so it was... on a somewhat chilly afternoon when the ever-punctual Darin Trass arrived at my humble flat in the village of Sidney. We were doing our part to save gas and preserve mother-nature, so Darin was going to hitch a ride with me down to the outskirts of Deposit, and the fabled Rooney Mountain. No sense in taking two vehicles to the same point right? Saving gas is what its all about right? Not to mention, it was our way to indirectly stick it to the man!

I had been fighting off a cold throughout the week, and decided to call it an early evening last night. In a way, it felt good to have nothing to do, or any place in particular to be on a Friday night. A typical Friday night is spent out and about playing music, carousing, or otherwise. There was to be none of that this time around. With a good night's sleep under my belt, I felt sufficiently rested for today's events. As my eyes struggled to focus on the hazy light coming through the window, I felt the chilly breeze saunter through my abode. It made my mind start to wander slightly. The words Ken spoke to me during the previous evening's phone call still rung through my mind as if he had said them only minutes before..."make sure you dress warm, I bet you it will get chilly up there." Trying to play the part of the burly sportsman I responded..."don't you worry about me buddy, I'm a mountain man and this is my kind of weather." I laughed to myself as I made myself upright, and proceeded to roll up an extra flannel and hooded sweatshirt to throw into my gig bag.

A familiar knock rattled my door. This announced Darin's arrival, and was my cue to begin the customary scurrying about (in a last ditch effort to ready myself for the day's events). But there would be no scurrying this morning. I was in a "taking my time" frame of mind on this cool September morning. I let Darin in, and we proceeded to chew the fat casually while I gathered the rest of my necessities for the festivities. Darin didn't seem to be in much of a hurry either, and was gracious in his casual manner this morning. I said goodbye to Lucy and Yub Yub (my two cats), and off we went.

I figured I'd be clever, and take Darin on the secret route up over Sidney Mountain, via West Main Street (as opposed to the more traditional path of Route 8 south). I was trying (in vain) to impress him a little with my knowledge of local shortcuts. Apparently, Ken or my self had already taken him on this road at some point when he said that he remembered that turn off (as we passed an obscure little dirt road) for the pig roast we had played the month prior. I was sorely disappointed, and could only console myself with the fact that at the very least...I had the bragging rights of showing Ken this guarded route at one point or another. It really wasn't much as far as making my self feel better, but it was all I had to cling to at this point.

With my atlas-like knowledge of the surrounding landscape leading the way, my spunky little Honda Accord had us in Masonville in a matter of minutes. If I could describe Route 8 between the hamlets of Masonville and Deposit, the word or phrase I would most likely use is snake-like. The serpentine pavement seems to twist, turn, and coil around the surrounding foothills, leaving the driver subject to the whims of the grey asphalt and stone mixture. It almost paints the road's face like brightly colored rouge on the high cheek bones of a Vegas showgirl. It makes the edges that much more obvious. The pavement (like the rouge) does nothing but accentuate the lines. The unevenness and incongruence of the landscape becomes very apparent on this short stretch of road. It makes us that much more aware that we were now leaving the flat lands of the Susquehanna River basin, and entering the foothills of the Catskills. It can only make one wonder what this area might have looked like millions of years ago before the ice ages and water erosion left its unforgiving scar on the face of a unmarked landscape.

Within ten more minutes, we arrived at the base of Rooney Mountain, on the outskirts of Deposit. Knowing that my vehicle sits much lower than the majority of traditional vehicles that make the climb, I elect to leave my car (and its underbelly) intact at the base of the hill. I know I will receive some sort of chiding or flack for hitching a ride to the apex, but I do appreciate the underbelly of my car as it currently exists. I am a firm believer that roads such as this one are better left to vehicles of the four-wheel drive variety. Darin is very gracious in his support of my decision to leave my car at the base, although he temporarily hits a nerve with the suggestion of hiking to the top with our gear in tow. I dispatch this notion with extreme prejudice as I quickly decline, and then act as if it was never considered by either of us. I then decide to exercise my executive powers, and use my cell phone to call for a ride to the top from one of our compadres who have probably already arrived. Unfortunately, our calls go unanswered, and we are left to entertain ourselves until the next passer-by happens along.

After several awkward stares from local traffic, I decide to make a move. The locals apparently find observing Darin and I casually leaning against my car very entertaining. This makes me feel a little bit awkward considering the fact that we are merely leaning. I make a move for the confines of the nearby wrap around porch. The porch rests against the foundation of the old grey farmhouse, at the base of the driveway. It looks like it has seen better days, but something in my mind tells me that we would appear more likely to belong in this foreign landscape by merely sitting on the porch. Acting as if I know what I'm doing (like all good leaders do), I amble on over to our improvised shelter. Darin naturally follows (under the assumption that I know what I'm doing).

We are instantly greeted by and extremely large, smoke grey colored cat, which appears to be guarding the unoccupied domicile. Darin's first comment on the feline protector is that it looks like a puma. Having never seen a puma in the wild, I simply agree with his observation (reserving any skepticism for later). I was never aware of this, but apparently cats find Darin very unappealing (or at least this one does). This comes as a surprise to me knowing how gentle and easy going Darin's nature is. As he holds his hand out to summon the great beast forth, the cat immediately bolts towards me (as if to seek protection from this mysterious invader carrying a violin case). As my new smoke colored friend nuzzles underneath my flannel-clad arm, I began to taunt Darin on how animals can sense the true nature of people. This continues for awhile until I finally distract the great beast enough where Darin can approach without reprise, and finally make friends. The only real explanation that I can offer is that our new friend probably observed the two of us approaching, and surmised that I would be the more likely of the two to be carrying some sort of item of food. I would think that anyone (man or beast) would probably find this fairly obvious when seeing us side by side.

So there we were, three guys hanging out on the porch, just chewing the fat (so to speak). Eventually we gaze up the hill to see a familiar grey pick-up truck making its way down the make-shift road. It was Royce. Apparently news of mine and Darin's adventures had reached the top of the hill, and he was on his way down to help us with our final ascent to the pavilion. I think the dust cloud left in Royce's wake (as he made his descent down Rooney top) alerted our friend that it was finally time for him to go. As quickly and mysteriously as he arrived by our sides... he was now gone. The only traces of his existence were the half empty bowl dry food that somebody had left to him earlier. As we go over to greet Royce and hop in the truck, I gaze back over towards the porch in hopes of getting one last look at our new feline friend...but he is no longer there. We stand around with Royce and talk for awhile, then eventually hop in the grey work horse to begin the climb. As I'm closing the door, I catch a grey streak out of the corner of my eye moving through the grass just below the truck. I think our little friend wanted to go to the party as well!!!

Fetish Lane is an American Roots Music Band. Members include Ken Held, Israel Lorimer, Ed Gliha, John Edick, Darrin Trass and Brian O'Connell.

Photography featured on this website was done in large part by friends, fans and family of the band including, but not limited to the following folks: Nikki Bisaha, Sarah Lewis, Aliscia Gaucher, Stacie Edick, Noelle Dasilva, and Johann Cash.

Website design and construction by: Thirsty Fish Graphic Design and Fetish Lane.