Fiddlers on stage.  (Click on  the image to see a larger photo.)

After a hiatus of 18 years, I returned to the Oregon Oldtime fiddlers’ annual campout at the behest of Willie Warwick, who, after a stint in SoCal, had returned to his roots in southern Oregon. Other than a new, solidly built state for the evening performances, not much had changed.

There were dozens of fiddlers camped on the bank of the East Fork, the old barn was still standing, Camp Mother Martha Warwick kept us all in line, and the swimming hole was as inviting as ever.

Ye olde swimmin' hole.  (Click on  the image to see a larger photo.)

That country runs hot in August and early September and this year was no exception. The afternoon temperature averaged 95 degrees, but a plunge into ye olde swimmin’ hole cooled us campers quite nicely.

Running on All Cylinders
Even after an 18-year absence, one of the first questions I was asked was, “How’s your truck running these days?” When I last left the campout, I needed a running start to get across the creek and up the short but steep hill to reach the main road. Money exchanged hands among the onlookers as Kenneth Brank gave the odds on whether I’d make it up the hill or not. The engine was running on just six of its eight cylinders. (Brank would say that was a metaphor for its owner, but we’ll skip that part.) For the record, I made it out on my second try.

In those days, I had quite a reputation for driving vehicles that usually got me where I was going, but didn’t necessarily get me back home. Defying that tradition, however, I now drive a perfectly capable truck that took that hill without a whimper and got me home with nary a backfire.

The Gang’s All Here (Almost)
The campout was something of a Ghetto Gang reunion, minus Uncle Gary Moore, who was contesting in Nevada. Kenneth and Margret Brank made the trek from Washington. Johny McDonald, who sported a saxophone as well as a fiddle, is a campout regular; she was accompanied by Britt Smith, an amazing guitar and mandolin picker, and his voice was in fine fettle as well. Brank was re-elected President, Willie was named Secretary of the Ex-terior, and I was in charge of secretly taping the goings on, just in case an indepentent counsel is appointed to investigate.

The Ghetto Gang was so named back in the late ’70s when a bunch of us uncouth rabble-rousers were sequestered behind the barn and away from the more genteel folks. We weren’t the best of housekeepers — but we certainly knew how to have fun.

Going Uptown
The Ghetto is actually a grand place. Despite its name, it commands the best shade in camp, with a vaulted ceiling formed by the arching limbs of majestic maple trees and curtained by a coterie of evergreens. And it’s very upscale now, thanks to Willie. He upgraded the infrastructure, wiring it for electricity and carpeting the ground.

Carpet Sweeper.  (Click on  the image to see a larger photo.)

The true reason for the electricity became obvious mid-afternoon of my first day in camp. Yes, it was nice to have light for the late-night jam sessions and, yes, it enabled a leaf blower to double as a carpet sweeper. But more important was powering the blender. Blackberry daiquiris were de rigueur. Mind you, we quaffed a few Red Pints as well. (You may recall the Red Pint recipe: 2/3 beer, 1/3 tomato juice (or V-8) preferably served in a pint jar.

Despite my long absence, there were plenty of familiar faces, including Dallas Gough from Idaho. Unfortunately, several of the fiddlers I used to see at the campout have gone on to the big fiddle jam in the sky, but there were new faces to ably fill their shoes.

Late-Night Ghetto Jam.  (Click on  the image to see a larger photo.)

It was good fun jamming in the Ghetto with Finger Pickin’ Good, the band for which Willie fiddles. Bluegrass tunes were dominant, but there were plenty of old-time fiddle and swing tunes as well. The band’s CD is due for release early next year.

Lorraine Rawls was a pleasant surprise. She’s a mighty fine singer who has out a CD of cowboy songs titled “Plains Born”. Willie plays the fiddle on several cuts.

Campout Kids
Also making the scene was the Clarridge Family of Burnt Ranch, Calif. Tashina, 16, and Tristan, 12, who have flourished under the tutelage of Megan Lynch Fleming, are two of the hottest fiddlers on the contest circuit. Tashina is the reigning California state champion and placed third at the National Oldtime Fiddlers’ Contest in Weiser, Idaho, last summer. Tristan is the California state Junior champ and was third in the Junior-Junior Division at Weiser. They were kind enough to give Johny, Britt, Willie and me some pointers, including the “spaz bow” technique.

Their most popular tune of the week was Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D. But it wasn’t the soporific fughetta style you hear at weddings. They double-time it, giving it a Celtic sound, a rendition they learned from Cape Breton fiddler Natalie McMaster at Mark O’Connor’s fiddle camp. And as if fiddling isn’t enough, they also sing. Tristan does a mean version of Hank Williams’ “Mind Your Own Business”.

They have a cassette tape for sale titled “Gotta Have a Fiddle in the Band” that features fiddle and cello. Besides mother Jan playing guitar, accompaniment includes the steady rhythm of Al Myers on guitar and Adrienne Jacoby on bass.

Another one of “those darned kids” who joined the fray was flatpick guitarist Carl Miner from Oregon. In September, the 16-year-old wizard placed second at the Winfield Guitar Flatpicking Championship, after placing in the top five last year.

Hanging out with such fine musicians was in inspiration to me, and got me sawing on the ol’ fiddle again. I even managed to pull off a few twin-fiddle numbers with Willie and Johny.

Fine Instruments
A group of us paid a visit to Michael Klein, a violin/viola/cello maker in Murphy, Oregon. A transplanted San Diegan, he’s been making fine instruments for more than a decade. Michael has won several awards for his craftsmanship and the demand for his instruments is growing — anyone ordering one today has a four-year wait.

Rush Has Better Penetration Than Dr. Laura
When driving through the Siskiyou Mountains in northern California, radio reception deteriorated by the mile until I was left with only two choices, Rush Limbaugh or Dr. Laura — which was no choice at all. Later, I tuned in again just to see who out lasted the other. In the Battle of the Big Mouths in the Big Mountains, Rush was the last one talking.