Driving along the winding, deer-infested roads of Highway 3 - prime alien abduction territory - I was hoping that Shambhala would be worth the 16-hour roundtrip journey that just might involve anal probing. I'd heard from fanatical fans of the three day summer event that is the festival to visit every year, and judging by the amount of hitchers and Phishmobiles on the road, it was telling how many Vancouverites were making the journey. 3 am in the asshole of nowhere, and a massive laser penetrates the sky announcing the end of the journey. My little Honda smiles as we pass an SUV that misjudged the edge of the road and is now parked at a 45-degree angle in the ditch. The shithead may have it, but does he know how to drive it? Stop, search, stop, search and holy shit Batman there's a party banging away in those trees. We camp in the dark, hoping we're not near the latrines (as previously experienced in Glastonbury, which was one shitty toilet in itself) and venture off to explore this tasty morsel of neon heaven deep in the darkest Kootenays.

It did not take lasers, massive screens in the air, lights, mirrorballs and pounding sound to realize that the promoters at Farmboy Productions did a bang-up unbelievable job turning their farm into a high-tech yet earthly music festival. Every face I saw was so clearly enjoying the moment, sharing the experience of being high on music, high in the woods, and high on the highness of being high. While there were only a few dozen souls still at it in the wee hours on the main stage, many more were to be found in ever nook and cranny, which housed a tent, a coupling, or a renegade party. The 6 stages were complete universes - the various production companies building elaborate planets within galaxies with giant sized pyramids, screens of visual fantasy, DJ stalls lighted up to convince more than one stoner that yes, God is a DJ. The dust and drive took its toll, and thumping bass made a strange yet suitable lullaby.

Morning has broken, and bodies litter the landscape like corpses, waiting for the touch of life. Hot sun on hot bodies, fleeing to the beach to dip, clothing optional, in the river. Kids, tattoos, weed, piercings, organic chai and moonstones. It's a festival, and by Juan, it feels like it. The smell of Nag Hippy adds to the ambience, and the organic, delicious food tent serves a casual meal. It's impossible to piss in the woods because someone's camped there, but the line-up for the flushing toilets (!) is a great place to meet people. Without a urinal, I can finally confirm that men take longer than women, but they may have had something to do with the women invading the men's queue. A forest chill, some R&R before the big storm, and anal probing makes its overdue appearance when a girl in the adjacent tent (no less than 3 feet apart from my head) screams "Oh my God, I just got fucked in the ass!". Applause, cheers. More applause. More cheers. It may not be free love, but for a moment it felt like it.

Sunset and you just knew it was going to be a big one. Fairies and bikers, hippies and ravers set out to mingle and party. I went straight to Avalon, to party in the trees with mirrorballs bouncing lights off thousands of leaves. But the music didn't hold me, so off to Interchill, far on the other side of the fields. Cool teepees, but the music drives me still, to the main stage, where T-Bone is mixing Madonna and Daft Punk, and some mudhead is repeatedly burning himself in an attempt to fire dance. Entertainment! Off to the drum n' bass tent, where skateboarders congregate like moles, and now the massive pyramid structure deep in the Fractal Forest stage, and back to the trees in Avalon. A journey past the inflatable Buddha to a renegade stage, where start-ups set up shop and bang away for their enjoyment as much as yours. While the stages were magnificent, the music never gripped my neck and throttled - making me appreciate the talents of the globe-trotting, expensive-as-truffle DJ superstars. The local guys breakbeated their hearts off, but the hero would have played some uplifting trance to an audience thirsty for it.

"There were like, half the amount of people last year," says one girl, an obnoxiously high silver mini-skirt flirting with the ground beneath her feet. I have no doubt that as word gets out, Shambhala will double in size again. Whether it will rob the festival of its unique buzz or enable the organizers to bring in a much needed headliner remains to be seen, but it is festivals like Shambhala that give music festivals in general a good name. It is worth the drive. Mind the deer.