A couple of Fridays ago, the biggest traffic jam in America wasn't in Los Angeles, New York or Chicago, or even on the Parkway East approaching the Squirrel Hill Tunnels.
It was in Vermont.
That's noteworthy because it usually requires lots of people to create a good traffic jam, and, let's face it, most people probably can't name a single big city in Vermont.
Not that there's any shame in that. There aren't really any big cities in Vermont.
Big mountains⢠Yes.
Big cities⢠Not so much.
For the record, Burlington, population 40,000, is the largest city in Vermont, a state so obscure that, before Howard Dean came along, we only knew its two most famous citizens by their first names: Ben and Jerry. But not even Ben and Jerry could induce 70,000 admirers to travel to Vermont -- did you know it's almost in Canada⢠-- to watch them work.
That distinction goes to four guys named Trey, Mike, Page and Jon, collectively known as Phish, and, for one weekend, they were responsible for making a grassy, 600-acre site in Coventry, Vt., the state's most populous place -- nevermind the fact that most of the housing in this "city" comprised nylon tents. The Coventry festival marked the end for Phish, who, for at least 10 of their 20 years together, have been the world's most unstoppable touring band.
Traffic would have been difficult under ideal circumstances, but heavy rain in the days leading up to the festival created a bottleneck of historic proportions at the gates, where vehicles had to be pulled out of the mud and into the campgrounds one by one. Interstate 91, the primary route into Coventry from the south, became more of a parking lot than a highway, as vehicles eventually backed up for as many as 30 miles. Perhaps it was God's way of punishing all the hippies who never have to sit in traffic on their way to work in the morning.
Even those of us who tried to circumnavigate the heaviest traffic by circling into Coventry from the north eventually came to a standstill short of our destination. After traveling through Pennsylvania and New York all day Friday, our journey promptly came to a halt at 2:30 Saturday morning, along a dark, two-lane road some 10 miles from the gates. It was kind of like sitting in traffic in the middle of the night on a back road in Gilpin -- had the world's most unstoppable touring band decided to give their farewell performance in Armstrong County. About 12 hours later, we pulled into the camping area and began pitching our tents -- so just keep that in mind the next time it takes you 10 minutes to cross the Tarentum Bridge.
But I guess that if you've got to be stuck in a traffic jam, you might as well be stuck in the coolest traffic jam of all time. Traffic inched along so slowly that most people spent as much time outside their vehicles as inside, and it was kind of like one, big, slow-moving party on wheels.
Thousands upon thousands of unusually merry commuters listened to music, made acquaintances, played Hacky Sack, threw Frisbee, napped, went to the bathroom on the side of the road and did what those who enjoy being festive do. In retrospect, I suppose that one good thing about traveling 75 yards at a time at 4 mph is that drinking and driving becomes far less hazardous.
Although I wouldn't recommend it, or playing Hacky Sack, the next time your rush-hour commute grinds to a stop.
