It’s good to have a routine. It gives us comfort. It fills in the guesswork.

Doe Bay Fest gave us routine.

Every morning, we would wake up to Bloody Marys made by Kevin. Kevin lived next door to us. We were on his turf, actually. Kevin is stout and sturdy. He wears hats with feathers. Kevin has a mangey beard and crooked teeth. Kevin is one of those characters that can only be found in America. He’s been coming to Doe Bay since it began. Kevin lives in a trailer that he drives all around the US, exploring. Strange, Kevin thought aloud, that he hadn’t been to Eastern Oregon yet.

Kevin’s Bloody Marys routinely had all of the fixins. Several hot sauces. Beans. Asparagus. Pickled everything.  If you brought Kevin a bag of ice, you were king for a day.

Every night, we would dream of those Bloody Marys, huddled in our tents, frozen. The San Juan Islands, a ferry ride off the west coast of Washington State about two hours south of Vancouver, had the climate of the Sahara. The sun tore you out of your tent each morning and seared throughout the day. When the sun set, the deep chill set in. Each night an overnight hibernation. Routine.

There were few known stars at the festival. We’d heard the acts before, kind of. The music ranged from indie rock, to 1920’s crooners, to ska n’ reggae, to gangster rap, to Leggs, to sweet soul music. And like clockwork, the moonlight majesty of the festival grounds kept things shaking. The Doe Bay Resort, a rugged wanderlust, hosted many “secret” shows once things got dark: An eight piece, strings, percussion and woodwinds, huddled around the one and only sanctioned campfire. The lead singers of four of the Doe Bay bands trading songs under “the big tree” (the howl of the lead singer of You, Me and Apollo resonating like a mystical pacific Northwestern banshee). The yoga tent pumping out electronic beats and pumped in stale, sweaty, nightclub recycled air. The rocky outcrop of a boat launch, mood lit by tiki torch, housing bygone Dylanesque protest songs.

Families rule this festival. 20/30 somethings with a wagon full of PBR and Belmonts were the exception, not the rule. Although that wagon drew a lot of attention – we should be taking a cut for each crusty, Washingtonian family man we sent to Costco.

Kids ruled too. But one, kid, routinely, lorded over the others. Isabel will be part of the next Doe Bay Fest promo material. Hoisted onto Tom’s shoulders, dressed in butterfly wings (purchased by aunt Maya and unckie Dave), Isabel was singled out at every show she showed up to. “Put your hands together, like that little lady in the wings over there.” “Doe Bay is beautiful, thanks for having us, and thank you little girl for dressing like a fairy and putting a smile on our faces.”

Another recurring theme was Tom’s passion project: buying land somewhere on the island and building a rustic cabin or three. Connected by footbridges. 40 feet in the sky. (Ok not that last one.) Funny enough that we met Rick, or Uncle Rick, on the final day of the Fest. He started by talking up the girls. He then bought us all beer, and left a $30 tip. First instinct, of this sixty five year old with hippie jeans, a Doe Bay polo top, and a catch phrase of “if you’re dining at the salad bar of life, don’t fill up on the carrots”, was that he probably owned the island, and maybe a professional sports team too. Turns out he’s had several careers – lawyer, real estate agent, pilot, labourer, and now, house builder. Rick walked Tom and I up to his cabin in progress a few hundred meters away from Doe Bay, nestled on a parcel of land scooped up for a cool $50k from somebody Rick knew was desperate to sell. Every day, Rick said, he works on at least one thing in that cabin. He then scolded me and Tom, convinced we weren’t “doing our wives right” by not buying real estate where we lived. (No bother that $50,000 in Vancouver could maybe buy you a two week timeshare in a community garden off East Hastings.) We were, nonetheless, inspired.

It was a great festival. Structured and routined, yes, but by all means loose. Nothing more than a 5 minute walk away. No band you needed to hear. No lack of sunshine, nature, food and beer. (And no way I was ponying up $12 for pizza, which actually looked like the pizza I make at 3am on a Saturday mornin’ post bar, on a piece of pita bread with awkwardly chopped vegetables, strips of Kraft singles and ketchup. Shame on that pizza stand.)

Next year, we’ll be the new routine, one upping Kevin with a Stampede style pancake breakfast, with Ceasars.

Doe Bay. Doe Bay.