With the sun blazing across the Lyons Valley, we sauntered over to the club to load up the equipment. Jeff was elected to reposition the van for loading, and after he'd done so, he jumped out of the van, and realized to his horror he'd locked the keys in the van. Jeff is already uncompromising with himself, holding high standards of musicianship and general competence, so in addition to be being embarrassing, he felt really bad, since now there was the possibility we'd be late for the gig. It was a little after 9 a.m., so there was some time, but soon it became apparent we weren't going to be able to break into this modern vehicle without damaging it.

The minute following his fauxpas, Jeff smartly called a locksmith just in case we couldn't get the thing open. It turned out we did indeed need a specialist. The night before Jeff and Jesse had left the van side window unlocked, so it had given us hope we could--with some jerry-rigged tool--somehow manage to reach in and push down on the unlocking button. But, it just couldn't be done. We tried sticks ripped from nearby trees, a rod from my hi-hat stand, duct taped wrenches on sticks...geez, it was pretty impressive, actually. But it just wasn't to be.

Meanwhile, time was tick, tick, ticking away. The locksmith still hadn't showed up after an hour. At last he lumbered onto the scene and within, literally, five seconds (with the exact right tool, of course), he had that sucker open. Jeff paid him, and we were off.

It took awhile to drag it out of him, but Jeff ended up forking over $90 (!) to our "savior," which pretty much erased his halo. Terry said he would have refused to pay that much, but Jeff pointed out the locksmith's truck was parked directly (and probably purposefully) in front of the van blocking any disgruntled fast getaways. It was, after all, Sunday morning, and, hey, the guy had to get up from his damn hangover and drive "all the way" from Boulder (15 miles), fer gawd sakes!

We arrived at the Red Fish around 11:30 a.m., and were playing by ten to noon, which was pretty damn good, considering. Terry was coughing and not looking too good, but his road dog trooper self didn't say anything. The owner of the Red Fish also owns Oskar Blues, Dave McIntyre, and he was a total gentleman about us being late for the gig. Dave's card titles him a "bluesologist," and he was one of the few people I met who actually knew who Terry Evans is, and who generously afforded Terry the respect he richly deserves.

It was a "Gospel Brunch" House of Blues style, so Terry reached down deep into his bag of gospel tricks and pulled out some real gems, most of which I'd never heard, and most of which the rest of the band hadn't played in a long time. We hoped it didn't show too much. I started to notice Terry holding back on the high notes, and started hearing a bit of hoarseness in his voice, and it was apparent he was coming down with a cold. Bummer.

Outside, it had started raining, and there was concern of heavy snows in the mountain passes. But that concern was quickly forgotten when we were given free rein to chow down on the outrageously delicious breakfast buffet on the first break. I had a little bit of everything: eggs, bacon, ham, waffles, three kinds of potatoes, pastries, beans, corn. Wow.

We finished up at two o'clock and got out as soon as we could to try to beat the weather. Terry was getting a little grumpy with his cold and the prospect of two more gigs in a row, and a supposedly 8-hour drive to Salt Lake. I ended up riding shotgun, but assumed Terry knew the best way out of town and to Salt Lake. After missing the I-70 freeway ramp a couple of times, Terry was now getting really frustrated, and set his jaw into considerable terseness. I finally dragged out the map after we were sailing on I-70, and realized that I-70 was going to take us about 300 miles south of SLC where it meets up with I-15, as opposed to I-80, which goes directly there. I wasn't about to say anything, though. Jeff was sleeping in the back, and had he been up-front he would have been yelping about it. But it wasn't my place as the new guy. So, we were headed west and SOUTH. Ugh.

The other thing about I-70 is the twisty route it follows through the Rockies--and, more importantly--the altitude at which it does so. At about 6,000 feet, it started snowing and within the next two hours it was dark, there was ice pack under about six inches of packed snow, and we were at a dead stop with about 500 other hapless motorists stuck behind a half dozen fender benders 15 miles outside of Vail. The snow plows couldn't get through for all the collisions, and the temp was falling fast.

After waiting for two hours, and getting out to piss in the dark and snow, we finally made it down to Vail and out onto open snow-free interstate.

Terry was sniffling and feeling miserable, so Jeff took over and got us down to the I-15 junction. I then took us north the remaining 100 miles into SLC. We finally arrived at the Super 8 Motel at 4 a.m., 13 pretty torturous hours after leaving Boulder...