Was up and out of the motel room by 1 p.m. in search of coffee. It was a crystal clear day, mild and beautiful in downtown SLC. I snagged a pretty decent cup of coffee across the street at the gas station/bakery (weird combo), and enjoyed a muffin and my brew sitting on a large rock guarding a parking lot off Temple Street.

I was really hungry, so figured I'd take a stroll around downtown and look for a Subway, or something like it. I ended up seeing our gig location for the night--the Dead Goat. A block beyond the Dead Goat was a Subway. I chowed down eagerly, and headed back to the motel. It was 2:30.

Fifteen seconds after I walked into the room, there was a knock on the door. It was Terry. "Let's go, man. I'm pickin' ya up." I was mortified. Uncharacteristically, Terry had decided to just go down and set up at the club at about 2:45, and I was the only one not around for the decision. Hence, the rest of the band had to horf my gear down three flights of stairs and another 150 feet to the stage. I felt terrible about that. I apologized about five times and when I got there, no one was really all that put out about it. Apparently, Terry's sudden swerve on logistics had thrown them off, too. I apologized more, set up in silence while Jesse fooled around with his effects box.

The place filled up nicely that night, with several Terry fans apparent with vinyl LPS, calendars and books awaiting Terry's autograph. By this time, Terry was downright hoarse, and hoarse in that bad laryngitis-type way. He bravely shouted and danced and put on a good show, minus the high notes, and it seemed to me he had either decided not to do Tuesday's show in Ogden, or was feeling much better. It turned out to be the former.

As fate would have it, the owner of Beatnik's in Ogden was at the show. A pretty fair harmonica blower himself, Terry graciously got him up to play while he rested his shredded voice. After the show, it was official: we'd be going home tomorrow. The Beatnik's show was amicably canceled, and Terry was understandably anxious to get home and recoup. He was going to rent a car and drive on down home to L.A., while the rest of us would take the van back to Portland.

Everyone was kind of relieved to be getting back home a day early, although I could have used the money. Terry did offer to send us half pay after he got home, and I thought was very cool of him.

The next day, we loaded out of the Dead Goat, grabbed some coffee all around and headed on down the road under sunny skies and crisp autumn temps. From the weather forecast it was pretty obvious we'd be running into rain somewhere in Eastern Oregon, and they were right. It poured mainly after dark while I was driving through the Eastern Cascades, gripping the wheel amongst barreling truckers blasting walls of water across the windshield. But the van was steady and strong, with (literally) 13 wiper settings, and I was really looking forward to hitting my own bed real soon, so it was cool, and I felt good.

I loaded my stuff into home sweet home at a little after midnight and stumbled to bed. The Terry Evans "blood tour" was over...