Re-printed with permission from the special “Summer Party Review” section of the May 2005 issue of “Backpedaller’s Gazette: THE Guide to Crawfish Travel.”
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HordFest: Lakeside Adventure or Travel Scam?
by C. M. Boyle
Editor's note: Over the past 10 years, we've received dozens of reports from excited freshwater crustaceans who've booked extremely reasonable vacation packages to the Texas Hill Country through the mysterious Ben E. Keith Travel Agency. With the wetlands abuzz among the aquatic invertebrate set, "Backpedaller" assigned its top travel reporter, C. M. Boyle, to attend HordFest X (June 12, 2004) and report back to our loyal readers on his experience. What follows is his log of the HordFest experience – from booking to his return trip – as well as his thoughts for those considering attending the upcoming HordFest XI.
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HordFest X, Marble Falls, Texas
Hosts: Mark and Lisa Hord
Cost: Free!
Description: Vacation lake resort/party featuring various outdoor sports, spectacular beverage and food service, unique pyrotechnic display (late night), basic accommodations, aquatic entertainment, and "sophomoric hijinks." Vertebrates and invertebrates welcome. Note: HordFest has a major presence of extremely large but harmless upright two-legged vertebrates.
Open Noon - 4 a.m. MC, DC, AMEX accepted. No reservations required.
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Backpedaller’s Ratings (from 1 to 5 pincers, with 5 being the best):
Price: 5 pincers
Transportation: 2½ pincers
Accommodations: 3½ pincers
Alimentation: 5+ pincers (simply decadent!)
Ambience: 4 ½ pincers
Social: 5 pincers
Entertainment: 5+ pincers! (positively rejuvenating!)
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Marble Falls, Texas - June 12, 2004
I first heard of HordFest about six years ago from a decapod who lived a few turrets down from me in the run-down marsh pool flat I was renting at the time. He hadn't been to the event himself, but even now I recall how the stalks of his eyes danced excitedly as he told me of the vacation deal he’d heard about from some friends.
"I te' you wha', Busta -- dey dun tol' me 'bout dis heyah party down 'bout Austin. 'Texas Hill Country' dey calls it. Seems dee fools dey givs free trips to dis' hehay fest'vil, and dem dats gone befo' dunt never wants to come back to da marsh. I swayuh I'm a-goin' if I kin and deys a bunch o' otha' crays a-goin' too -- Saddlebacks, Ozarks, Prairie crays -- deys all a-goin."
While my interest was piqued by this unlikely yet undeniably compelling tale, I had already been assigned to review a posh new levee hotel in the rice fields outside Richaleaux Chapel Parish on the day of the event and was unable to join him. Sure enough, word came later that my neighbor had succeeded in obtaining passage to HordFest and had apparently decided to permanently relocate to Texas.
As the years swam by, late each spring I would hear similar tales of crays booking luxurious, free vacation deals to the Texas Hill Country, where a new "Cray Riviera" had sprung up along the shores of Central Texas' scenic, hill-lined lakes. So, when earlier this year my editor offered me the chance to experience HordFest through my own antennae, I accepted it in three flips of a tail.
My editor referred me to the Ben E. Keith Travel Agency on the third level of a burrow in the swanky east swamp. The offices were impeccably appointed and I was assisted by a freshly molted young crae with a finely tailored exoskeleton. True to what I'd been told she confirmed that the trip was indeed free of charge, but after some questioning the assistant admitted that I might have to endure a presentation of some sort on the afternoon of my arrival. Having endured several time-share presentations early in my career in return for free vacations, I accepted my fate and with a certain amount of dread pressed for further information on the trip. She was unable to provide many details, but from what I could discern this was not going to be the high-end luxury vacation to which I now am accustomed, but instead one of those dreadful “adventure” tours popular among tertiary burrowers.
To my great frustration, the agency was utterly unable to advise me of my precise departure time. I was told that I would be picked up outside my turret sometime within the next two days, a major inconvenience that required me to skip a swanky podtail party hosted by well-known socialite Gouldi Orconectes. Mercifully, I was forced to wait only until the following afternoon when I was swept away from my mud porch without warning, tossed into a somewhat dilapidated basket coach with approximately 35 other crawfish and a stray perch, then loaded into an enormous waterbus staffed by two upright, two-legged, pale-skinned Vertebrate Oafs of a kind I’d never before seen. Several well-organized but decidedly low-budget travel connections ensued, each of which was handled with almost military precision by the VOs.
Finally, after several hours three VOs shoe-horned hundreds of us into a rather cramped, yet well-refrigerated (delightfully so!) purple burlap tram for the long trip to Texas. Despite specifically asking for a net-side location at the travel office, I found myself in the economy section near the center of the tram. Worse still, I was forced to share space with a self-righteous family of Genera Pacifasticus and – to my great dismay – a boisterous young posse of Devil Crays who drank so much en route that two of them gurgitated all over my freshly-shined thorax.
After several lengthy stops and a half day of travel, word reached the inner bag that we had arrived in Marble Falls, well-known host city to HordFest. Hours more of waiting followed, with the only thing that made it bearable being the positively brisk temperature inside the burlap tram.
Finally, the tram string-ties were loosened and we were afforded enough room to stretch our aching pereiopods. Suddenly, the tram was jerked upward and quickly took an abrupt nosedive, whereupon we passengers found ourselves in a thrilling free fall – en masse – into an ultra-modern, tub-shaped, metallic grey sporting arena. What had been an utterly disastrous travel experience was about to take an unexpected and welcome turn for the better!
The free fall into the arena carried a rush of sensations – a blast of warm Texas air; the sight of enormous woody green foliage growing high into the brilliant blue of the Hill Country sky; the sound of joyous skeeking from scores of crays having the time of their lives. I was fortunate to land near the top of the cascading mass of craymanity that had been released from the tram.
Only after landing did I realize the full effect of my extended exposure to the chilly, cramped conditions in the tram. The cold had temporarily paralyzed me from the balls of my eyestalks to the tip of my telson! After 10 minutes' exposure to the summer air, however, I slowly began to regain the feeling and motility of my swimmerets, my pereiopods, and finally my urapod.
Being one of the first crays to regain my faculties allowed me to claw my way through the crowd to daylight – but only after a spirited and utterly enjoyable pincer-snapping face-off with three spectacularly feisty crays along the way. I was amazed at how quickly the pincer-to-pincer combat training I’d received as a young Marine came back to me:
Parry! Riposte! Volte’! Snap! Backpedal!
Gradually others awoke from their icy slumber to join the fray. Never before have I witnessed such joyous mayhem: chelipeds waving frantically; telsons furiously flashing forward and back; pincers snapping wildly; swimmerets flitting with unflagging speed; antennae and eyestalks darting hither and yon; giddy gleeps and creeches escaping from the deepest thoraxes of a suddenly rejuvenated throng of middle-aged but euphoric crays!
The face-offs were ubiquitous and exhilarating … at one point I found myself deftly fending off two charging Faxonella on my left flank while simultaneously delivering an astonishingly quick blow to the lower exoskeleton of a menacing Tasmanian Astacopsis charging my exposed abdomen.
“WHO'S YO' CRAWWWW-DADDYYYYY...!!!” I hissed in a triumphant rage as the Astacopsis retreated, tail between his legs.
Truth be told, I was somewhat taken aback by the almost violent fury with which I had thrown myself into the melee. But I was not alone. The entire tramload of us – mudbottom custodians, convenience puddle clerks, bank cray executive officers, antennae stylists, exoskeleton actuaries – had been instantaneously transformed into a mongrel horde of modern-day crawdadiators. Just ten minutes earlier I’d been a bookish and mild-mannered Cambarellus Diminitus, now I was an unstoppable warrior cray fighting with a ferocity normally seen only in the most seasoned Northern Astacus!
I felt three moltings old again! What demented genius had dreamt up this impossibly invigorating experience!?
If only it had lasted forever...the sound of cheliped cracking against pereiopod, excited smackificaciÓn traded between battling crays, antenna bits and perieopod segments flying from flailing pincers. It all combined to form an exquisite martial symphony that even 9 months later echoes in my earholes like some aural fountain of youth.
...I love the smell of craypalm in the morning...
The melee was reaching a glorious crescendo when, just as I was raising my chelipeds to deliver the coup de grace to a cowering Procambarus, two enormous pinkish-tan masses grasped me on either side of my thorax and whisked me upward and away from the arena. Whatever it was that was gripping me (each mass had a hard pink shell on the reverse side) was astonishingly powerful. My eyestalks darted to the side for a better look at my captor, where I saw a small (if there is such a thing) VO baring at least a dozen oddly-shaped pearls at me from what looked like a mouth of some sort.
"En garde!" I demanded of the hideous oaf with my pincers raised.
Lacking either valor or wits – or both – the oaf ignored my challenge and whisked me away from the arena high into the air. I tried frantically to deliver a mortal blow to the oaf, waving my pincers forward and to the sides and finally back so far I feared they might separate from my thorax. What a sight I must have been!
Soon I realized the oaf was heading toward a small gathering of similarly-sized VOs, each holding a fellow cray. Was this part of the resort's entertainment?
The lot of us were placed into a separate arena, larger than the first and gleaming white. Except for two other crays who'd apparently been placed there by other oafs, the arena at first glance appeared to be empty with the exception of several strange, scattered artistic portrayals of fish (and seahorses?) on the floor of the arena. Only when I was placed within the arena did I realized that it was filled with the most extraordinary substance I'd ever seen.
"What is this?" I said to one of the other crays.
"I don't know," he replied dreamily, "but give it a taste!"
Words are my livelihood, yet I am even now unable to adequately describe this glorious substance. It bore some resemblance to the beautiful murky water of my home swamp in terms of texture and feel, yet it was colorless, odorless and almost invisible. The taste was heavenly. The finest swamp lager would taste of carp effluent by comparison, and the levee water lovingly passed from a mother's swimmerets over her baby's ventral ganglion would seem an affront.
As my bailers cycled this amazing nectar over my gills I feared I would faint in ecstasy...full-bodied in flavor, delightfully complex, faintly chewy with just a hint of flouride and a toasty finish, yet at the same time oddly without taste! Not chemically intoxicating, yet spiritually overwhelming. Even today, the only clue I have as to the identity of this mystery potion came from one of the other crays in the arena who referred to it as tapez l'eau, a suitable name given the mystery and romance it conveys.
No matter what the name, the other crays and I sank into it, frozen like barnacles save for our frantically undulating swimmerets and bailers, which were madly propelling this liquid love through our ravenous, electrified gills. Temporarily oblivious to the goings-on around me, I awoke from this paralyzing sensory explosion to realize that nine more crays had joined us in the arena. Torn between continuing to savor this strange "liquid of the gods" versus resuming the war games I'd been snatched away from, I had but one choice...
Game... On...
Without hesitation, the twelve of us simultaneously charged the center of the arena to a renewed free-for-all every bit as enjoyable as the larger one before, but with the added ethereal quality of fighting within an amorphous, liquid hug. Eventually the mini-VOs – dressed in colorful yet somewhat scanty outfits very much unlike those worn by the larger oafs – joined us in the arena, staying away from the immediate vicinity of the fray, wading and splashing about in the nectar.
The rest of the day is a blur. I suppose that between the exhaustion of the countless fights and the overwhelming experience of this strange "VO juice," I lost my normal sensory faculties as well as any sense of time or place. I have fleeting recollections of single-handedly facing down a VO, pincers raised skyward, antenna dancing in anticipation as if to say...
"You wanna' piece of me?!"
I also seem to recall small bits of conversation I may have overheard from the other crays ... some mention of a delicious-smelling stew the VOs were cooking for us ... a hot tub party some of the other crays were taken to ... a late afternoon presentation that must have been every bit as compelling as advertised since I didn't see any other crays on the return trip.
Regardless, the next clear memory I have is riding in a small, economy class (but private) boxcar of some sort, with the mini-oaf who'd introduced me to that heavenly nectar peering into the boxcar, again baring those enormous pearls at me. Though exhausted, I managed to summon up the strength for a half-hearted demonstration of my "guns" to the oaf, but truth be told my chelipeds were killing me and I had no fight left.
Finally, after at least a half-day of travel, the little oaf personally carried my boxcar to the edge of the swamp and released me. I found this perfunctory drop-off to be highly unsatisfactory, not to mention the inexcusable mistake made on my drop-off point – right swamp, wrong levee. It took a full week of slow walking before I made my way to my home levee and finally my turret. And after all the exertion and travel, it took me a full molting for my aching segments to return to normal!
Even still, despite the sub-par travel accommodations, I found HordFest to be an unforgettable, thoroughly enjoyable experience and I recommend it wholeheartedly to my readers. You can count me in for HordFest 2005!
If you go this year and want to stop by to say hello, you won't have a hard time finding me. After missing out on them last year, there's no way I'm going to miss the Saturday afternoon presentation after a relaxing day hanging out with the other crays in the hot tub.
See you there!
C.M.
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C.M. BOYLE UPDATE -- JUNE 2005
C.M. attended HordFest 2005 as planned, but his post-party wrap-up was not available by the deadline for the July edition of Backpedaller's. Unless he followed many of his brethren and decided to relocate to the Texas Hill Country, we will print his updated review in the August edition. In the meantime, we did receive wire copies of C.M. in action at HordFest XI, courtesy of freelance photographer Jennifer Burns.
Copyright Mark Hord, 2005
