​I'm not quite 5'2", so it takes everything I have to keep up with my 5'8" photographer, who is zig-zagging her way through the packed crowd.

 

Overhead, we hear Allen Stone being introduced -- Portland doesn't know what's about to hit 'em -- we freeze in our tracks; eye contact is made. In unison, we bolt towards Miller Stage, afraid to miss the performance that we have both anticipated to be more exciting than a four-day excursion filled with camping, BBQ, and (surely) a junkload of amateur pyrotechnics... 

 

"Holy Junk!" We still don't have credentials, nobody knows who the hell we are, and, Allen Stone is my sshhh*****t!!!! Next plan of action?

 

I look down at my phone; two texts recieved. "Dear Jeebus, please let one of these be the right text. Pleeeaase." We're in!

 

We step onto the stage, the breeze from the river zaps the bead of sweat that's about to plunge down my face. Everyone's going crazy for Allen Stone. I'm going crazy for Allen Stone... KA