It’s a gorgeous August day in 2010. I’m wearing shorts and sandals and sunglasses.

And that’s about it.

I’ve got a bottle of ManMix in my hand.

And a brain full of fun stuff.

Did I mention that I’m hanging out at Shambhala Music Festival? With about ten thousand unreasonably sexy people? All writhing to the low end from six stages worth of PK speakers, which shake the otherwise quaint West Kootenay paradise.

It’s like living inside a tricked out, uncensored episode of The Raccoons.

Run with us.

We’ve got everything you need.

The marketplace is the central hub of the festival. A collection of food vendors and other services connect to pretty much every stage. If you’re out for a shamble—the act of aimlessly and inevitably wandering into adventure—you should pass this way.

It’s here that I spy the cops. Just hanging out.

I can’t not talk to them.

“Do you mind if I ask you guys a question?” I interject into their afternoon.

“Sure,” says the tall, moustachioed constable.

“Well,” I begin, “You guys know there’s some illegal activity going on around here, right?”

The stockier, coal-haired officer checks behind himself, looks back at his partner and then right through my sunglasses.

“I don’t see anything,” he shrugs.

I test the limits of my grin, confident that the law is in good hands with these mounties.

Run with us.

We are free.