Cov·en·try n (1765) 1 : a state of ostracism or exclusion x 2 : the Vermont site of Phish's final performance

Coventry, the Northern Vermont sleepytown that played host to Phish's finale, also served as the namesake to Phish's 2004 summer festival. While most Phish festivals enjoyed whimsical names such as The Lemonwheel or It, Phish's final festival adopted the name of its slightly shadowy-sounding host town. Its 240-year-old definition seemed appropriate for the event; tens of thousands of Phish fans convened upon the Northeast Kingdom, about 10 miles from the Quebecian border, to form a displaced society beyond the barriers of the conventional world. Such was Coventry. Such was Phish.

But before we could rejoin that exalted state of exclusion, we had to get there: There were going to be a lot of friends on the journey, and we had to join forces for the last ride together.

The group plan, organized via text messages following the band's penultimate concert in Camden, was to meet by a Wal-Mart in Massachusetts. We could stock up on supplies, grub, and galoshes. (It had been raining quite a lot over the past few days, and we were told that the Coventry grounds were muddy...)

One by one, friends descended on the Wal-Mart parking lot via various routes. Mike, at right, flew from Denver to Chicago, then hitched a ride with Max from the Windy City. (Max took the photo while waiting for my crew to arrive from New Jersey.)

Beth and I rolled in with the Egyptian sisters Dina and Amy in tow, and Josh's Chicago crew followed behind. We did our shopping and waited for the full group to coalesce. Marcus and Meredith were stuck in Connecticut traffic, and we were glad, glad, glad when they arrived. Then we were set to go: eight cars and 21 people strong.
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<---Sam and Sam plan
the proper course for the caravan
as the sun sets behind me and Bobby D
Rand McNally conspires to create our Destiny

I-91 would be clogged with cars we guessed
so we chose a new direction we thought best
the choice was the difference in a successful quest
the path we rode was up I-89, then on 5 West

I had never seen Phish perform in their own home state of Vermont.

Vermont nurtured Phish, providing the band with the ideal environment and attitude to become a legend. But Phish outgrew the Green Mountain State and hadn't played there in nearly a decade. In the meantime, I had been busy catching Phish everywhere else: Vermont would be the 23rd U.S. state I'd see Phish play in.

The navigating team cut over to Montpelier (the smallest US capitol) to head into Coventry from Route 5. There we met up with Rudy, the ninth car in the caravan. We were less than 100 miles from the goal. But before we set off for the last leg, I wanted to present my Coventry gifts.

I've always compared Phish to the Beatles. The Fab Four and the Phab Phour.

The connection came together seeing Phish perform on top of the David Letterman marquee in June. And though Phish was disbanding without all the Beatles' acrimony, "Let It Be" was the theme for Phish's breakup. At least in my head.

When I visited Jordan at the High Sierra Music Festival in July, he was wearing his old "Let It Be" shirt, with the graphic shown at left. And the idea came to me.

Replace John, Paul, George, and Ringo with Trey, Mike, Page, and Fish. It clicked. I would make shirts with Phish's "Let It Be" as parting Phish gifts for my friends.

After getting back from the honeymoon, I set out to find the perfect images of Phish for my project. It wasn't easy.

And in the end, I found nearly ideal images. Even though Fishman's pic is not from the post-hiatus ("Let It Be") era, the faux mustache from the Hoist album art was as close to Ringo as I could get.

Trey was very Lennonlike, and Page had George's silly grin (and was looking left).

Beth suggested we add the lyric "please me have no regrets," to the back of the shirt. The simple lyric from Phish's "The Curtain" fit the shirt's theme well.

In the week before Coventry, I had 36 shirts printed in uptown Manhattan. They cost a fortune, but they were priceless.

I had just wanted to give my friends a gift for all the good times we'd had together. This was the only Phish shirt I ever made.

It had always been a joke between me and my friends to call Phish "The Phish" (or "Pa-hish"). The mainstream could never pronounce the simple name of the "jamband." (Peter Jennings twice said "The Phish" while reporting on Phish's Big Cypress festival during ABCs' millennium special.)

I agonized over the decision, but I ended up using the logo below for my shirt.

One of the only people to see my shirt before Montpelier was my brother Jordan. I FedExed a shirt to his Lake Tahoe office so that he could have it for the Simulcast in Sacramento. Over 2,900 miles away and still damp from Phish's previous summer festival, It, Jordan played it cush and caught the concerts from the comfort of a cinema in California's capitol. I was sad not to be with my brother for the final concerts, but I knew he'd be wearing my shirt. And he'd be dry, too.

So once we'd topped off nine gas tanks in Montpelier, I called everyone over to Beth's jeep. I thanked my friends for all the great road trips, the shows, the setbreak conversations. The couches, the stub-downs, the post-show analyses. And I handed my shirts out to everyone. For Colleen, wearing the fab four on her tee already (as shown above at the Wal-Mart) , it was a nice coincidence. (I was wearing a newly purchased shirt with every Phish show listed by date and venue, and the prophetic words "This has all been wonderful, but now I'm on my way.")

With my gifts distributed to the few companions on this ride, we set off for the 60-mile home stretch. For about an hour, we cruised along, confident in our call to avoid the I-91. The nine-car caravan snaked through empty back roads in rural northern Vermont in the middle of the night, communicating via sets of handheld radios. Then we hit the long line of cars. And we didn't move. After a half hour of idling, we turned our engines off, pulled out camping chairs, and got busy waiting.

Rudy's GPS told us we were five miles from Coventry. There were about 16 hours until showtime. So we were happy to wait, drink some beers on the road's side, and wait some more.

The night taught me to jump start a car, as Max's stereo kept draining his battery and we kept giving him jumps. At one point in our crawl up the 5, we came upon a graveyard; I explored the tombstones and freaked myself out.

Eventually, dawn crept up on us. By six in the morn, the sign post told us we were four miles from Coventry.

The pace of the traffic didn't make sense. We had traveled one mile in five hours. But at least we were close--though not as close as we'd thought; the festival was by the airfield, 3 miles past Coventry Village. Still, we were inching our way there. And this final Phish road trip together just kept on going on. Keeping the nine-car caravan together this whole time had been an amazing accomplishment, and it was wonderful to catch up with all my friends.

We listened to The Bunny, Coventry's radio station (converted from WMOO by Phish for the weekend), getting traffic updates and good tunes from the airwaves. The Bunny had even broadcast the band's soundcheck during the night.

While we're hanging out on the roads, Mike Gordon gets on the air. Phish's bassist, the sole vote against disbanding, had an announcement to make.

As the line of cars tuned in, Mike sadly informed us that the heavy rains over the previous days had caused the grounds to flood, and there was no more room for the thousands of cars waiting to get in.

We were told to turn around. Go home.

Max captured the image at left at 8:17 a.m., while Mike repeated his message.

My friends' faces speak volumes to our collective reaction. Unbelievable.

Almost 24 hours of driving, months of organizing and coordinating, all for naught. Years and years of traveling to see Phish, terminated just like that. It was over. Now what?

I had been wandering around when I heard Mike's speech. My mind turned to the Simulcast, so I'd be able to witness the end of Phish with my own eyes. All the theaters were sold out, though. And what about everyone else? I had no plan.

A few cars pulled out of the right lane and headed back down the road.

We remained, paralyzed by the situation. There were so many of us, and we were not going to see the last Phish show. We had failed, and this was the end.

Then, just as the reality was about to set in, a cop cruiser drove down the other side of the road, its speaker turned up.

"You're In!" boomed a man's voice. We were close enough that we'd be let in! WE WERE GOING TO MAKE IT!

I'll remember the moment forever. It was one of the best feelings I've ever had with Phish--pure, simple elation.

Above, Doro captures her brother Sam (and Ezra) in the precise moment of glee.

The intense swing from heart-wrenching sadness to euphoric joy in such a short period of time was almost unpalatable. "Stop fucking with our emotions!" one friend screamed out loud to no one in particular. Another friend was in tears, unable to handle the communal wave of relief. It was only the beginning of the extreme emotional roller-coaster, we'd later discover. But for now, we were on a high.

With a second chance to see Phish for the last time, we were even more excited to get to the festival. This mythical land of enchantment, this coventry, it was just around the bend (and then down a few miles). So we continued to hang out, catch up, and occasionally inch our cars a few feet forward. Below, Max shows off his new ride while Josh and Mike flank the road.

We plodded along throughout the morning, never quite getting the odometer's needle to move. And while we trudged along, we were passed by hoards of hippies heading to the show. At first it wasn't clear what was happening. But after several hundred people passed us with coolers, tents, and sleeping bags, we understood: People were walking to the show.

We were about seven miles from the festival when Mike made his announcement. And for those people behind us, who fell behind the official "cutoff," well, they had chosen to hike in rather than turn back. As the fans poured past us, the magnitude of the event began to be felt. The sheer determination of Phish fans--their dedication to the band--had never been more apparent. It was a powerful sight to behold.

I'd like to think I'd have the resolution to drop my gear and go; I'm just glad I didn't have to make that decision. And I give serious kudos to those folks who made the 10-to-15 mile hike. I saw a man with crutches lumber down the road. I saw another guy struggling with a 30-case of beer. He had more than five miles to go, but he wasn't going without his beer.

We had to find other ways to entertain ourselves. Gabe went for a refreshing dip in nearby stream. Sam organized a cherry seed-spitting contest. Below left, he shows his sister the game's parameters. Below, Alex gives it a go while Sam looks on approvingly. Below right, Sam shows how it's done--adding his body oomph to the masterful hack.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x Sam easily won the contest.

Josh Levy, as usual, provided the comedic relief. --------->

Five years removed from Big Cypress, Josh had grown from bright-eyed newbie to grizzled veteran. But though he turned obsessed like the rest of us, he never became jaded. There had never been a more welcome convert to the scene.

Above, Gabe and I (in a red hat) toss the Frisbee on a green field on the side of the road. We tossed quite a lot of disc.