What you missed not attending the Pacific Northwest's loudest music festival: Shambhala Festival 2025

David Scherer Water

SALMO, British Columbia —  I don't like drugs, loud music or dancing all night. In other words, I'm the Shambhala Music Festival's natural enemy. I prepared for the worst — and found it. Why did I go? My girlfriend organized this trip. Earlier in the summer, she cheerfully agreed to a rafting adventure I'd planned, so I felt I owed her my maximum optimism. As it turned out, I didn't have a good time. I had the time of my life.

Shambhala is an EDM festival — that's "Electronic Dance Music" — but even with industrial-grade hearing protection, what came through sounded nothing like music, rather more like loud, relentless burps. Without protection, the decibels rivaled a jet engine. The "Dance" part looked less like dancing and more like thousands of people trying not to fall over.

The best parts of Shambhala had nothing to do with drugs, music or dancing. This court of 25,000 blissed-out strangers in various stages of cognitive annihilation became Happy Land for me. All I had to do was say "yes" whenever someone asked me to, please, for godsakes, do something. By the end, strangers were shaking my hand, my girlfriend was beaming, and my reputation as a Man of Shambhala had been cemented.

The drug-exclusive experience

It's important to know that Shambhala has a strict prohibition on alcohol, enforced with full searches at the gate. They've even built a special Ellis Island-style drive-thru: a wide series of tollbooth checkpoints where every vehicle must pass. Passengers get out, and staff hunt for booze. Cakes of ketamine, mushrooms, or acid are often passed over, but a single Michelob is poured directly into one of several thousand-gallon vats, to be disposed of via non-fun oriented means.

Compliance is widely supported. During the festival, I saw booze confiscated by paramilitary "Drink Hunters" under the approving gaze of onlookers. The rationale is that the drugs deserve room to roam free from the troublesome effects of alcohol, which is widely blamed for the problems that plague other festivals.

To my eyes, intoxication by drugs (without alcohol) seemed to create a less aggressive atmosphere. I saw a lot of spiritual meltdowns, but I never saw a single fight, physical or verbal. Absent too was that sloppy, blackout vibe. Early morning attitudes seemed less afflicted by hangovers. Everyone was dreamy and sedate. 

In this context, I catapulted into the first of my accidental Shambhala careers.

The Connecticut Yankee experience

 My first morning, I saw people gathering for a yoga class and grabbed a mat. I chose a safe-looking space in the middle. Then I noticed the class was in a circle — I had taken the teacher's spot. A sound tech handed me a wireless mic. Instead of correcting him, I moved to the front of my mat, put my hands in prayer position and shouted, "Samasthiti!" The crowd rose to attention and I led the Primary Series in its entirety. Everyone followed. Despite years of timidly training with the fiercest Ashtanga instructor Olympia can offer, no small claim, no one was hurt.

That evening, I wandered into a ring of anxious people and was asked if I was there to facilitate a meeting on behalf of an unlikely group of drug-free ravers. I'd seen one movie with an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in it, so I said yes. As it turns out, having very little direct experience with drugs or alcohol wasn't a problem. I cried about my bootlegging ancestors and my new friends validated my clean-living ways. Parting hugs were sincere on all sides.

The following day, I walked around with my xylophone (Travel tip: Never go anywhere without a xylophone), and encountered an elderly man snorting cocaine off the skin of a djembe. He took a turn on my xylophone, hammering the mallets with a frantic, feverish rhythm. I accompanied on his drum. The sound was amazing, and terrifying. He became emotional, relating how his parents had punished him for not practicing more at his childhood xylophone. I listened, rapt. I'd never played music with someone on cocaine before. It was less sexy than I'd imagined it would be. Did he find peace with his past through our connection? Did we break through our musical blocks into new heights of genius? I learned an important lesson in my accidental healer's journey: It's hard to tell with people on cocaine.

A Shambhala Music Festival 2025 attendee plays a xylophone.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

Later that same afternoon, I joined a band by sitting at a makeshift drum set. We performed for an hour without speaking once. Soon after, I was mistaken for a juggling instructor and led a workshop despite having no skill or knowledge of juggling. "Be one with the motion," I advised. "Close your eyes and let your hands follow." I ended with a (completely false) history of juggling, explaining how "The Jug" was a constellation that filled the Big Dipper with a cascade of stars. People applauded. Someone walked up and asked me why I was holding their juggling pins. I scampered away.

The next morning, down by the river, I began stacking boulders into an abstract sculpture. A man with a glazed expression ambled by, ankle-deep in the water, and stopped to stare. "Move that green rock onto the end of the row," I said encouragingly. He staggered forward, clutching for a green boulder the size of his head. "That's right," I said, as he heaved it into place, grumbling. Task complete, he continued to stare thoughtfully at the rock, so I figured I'd help. "OK, so now move that brown rock on top of the green one." Half an hour later, I had a crew of seven peaceful zombies stacking rocks and gently complaining about the never-ending work. We moved the river.

Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

Afterward, to unwind and reflect on everything, I went to a park the festivalgoers referred to as "Downtown" and sat behind my Hermes portable. Almost immediately, people gathered on the bench opposite me. Trying to be friendly, I tucked the end of my belt under the typewriter, and instructed the onlookers to take turns holding the end. "Through this conduit, I can read your minds," I proclaimed. "I'm stealing your thoughts and emptying your bank accounts." I typed furiously. My audience giggled, delighted, taking turns holding the belt. I filled six pages. These became the libretto for an opera improvised by the crowd on the spot.

Columnist David Sherer Water, as seen at the Shambhala Music Festival 2025.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

The infrastructure and misdirection experience

Shambhala is so large it runs like a small city. There are systems for medical, fire, water, sewer, garbage and transportation. On day three, I decided to spend an afternoon riding the yellow school buses that served as the mass transit fleet. I met a couple who'd accidentally missed their stop twice because the driver never made announcements. I met a young man convinced he was trapped on a TV show. 

I thought he was having a lark, but tears filled his eyes as he explained, "Nobody ever believes me. I know how I sound, and I have been to every therapist and healer I can think of, but I can't not know the truth." He looked at me, mournfully. "You're all paid actors. I don't blame you. It's just so lonely being the only person not in on the plotline." When I realized he was serious, I gave him a hug. We sat there together patiently waiting for the bus to continue its journey before realizing the driver had abandoned ship to headbang for a headlining act.

Columnist David Scherer Water, right, on a bus at Shambhala Music Festival 2025.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

Near my campsite, a walking path dumped pedestrians into the road, forcing them to compete with heavy traffic. It wasn't until the last day that a sign was installed directing walkers: "Sidewalk ending. Please cross here." Until then, Shambhala, blessed with a Ming Dynasty of tireless volunteers, deployed countless crossing guards. These workers, with flagging patience, screamed that single instruction to the stoned throng through megaphones at all hours — sometimes operating from inside my pillow.

A sign directs Shambhala Music Festival 2025 attendees to "cross here."

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

As shambolic as Shambhala's traffic problems were, I promise it wasn't me misdirecting all that traffic on Saturday. I only directed one guy: Tyler, a festival attendee in a purple onesie and doll's head amulet. "The hero's dose I just took has healed my anxiety," he said. "I feel commanding," I wasn't sure what a hero's dose was at that particular moment, but it sounded serious. I suggested he command something.

 I helped him into a high-vis vest and handed him the stop sign I found in the grass next to it. He commandingly directed new arrivals to follow exit signs to their campsites, resulting in a series of vehicles being turned around to trundle right back out of the festival again. It was stunning. I didn't think he'd pull it off so convincingly. 

The result was a beautiful, catastrophic mess — and, let's face it, a little unethical. I still feel guilty, but what could I do? Who could resist? Later, my girlfriend explained that a "hero's dose" implies consuming a very large bag of magic mushrooms in the hopes of meeting God. I'm sorry, Tyler, all you met was me.

A fallen stop sign at Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

Shambhala Music Festival 2025.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

The sleep deprivation experience

As a challenge to myself, I went one night without sleeping — building on a healthy foundation of several nights of very little rest. Screaming young adults, engine exhaust, dust blown in from the dirt highway roaring a few inches from my tent, and multiple multimillion-watt, million-dollar sound systems blaring simultaneously at all times made customary slumber impossible. Even at the oddest hours, I only managed short naps aided by heavy-gauge earplugs, noise-canceling headphones, a full-face P100 respirator, a portable air filter, and multiple eye masks.

 It was sleep deprivation (not second-hand cannabis smoke) that put me in a fugue state. As I moved through the overwhelming spectacle of projected images, rotating laser beams, roving spotlights, and every human bejeweled in color-shifting LED diamonds, I soared into recreational dismay. My wrists grew heavy with "kandi" bracelets dispensed by colorful pilgrims. My hair became glossy with the discharge of machines venting real bubbles filled with fake smoke.

A scene from Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

I transcended cranky exhaustion and leveled up into the yawning chasm of the grand sham, the very heart of Shambhala's ecstatic jam. Somewhere in the sensory overload I found myself yelling "Happy Shambs!" with and at the ravers. My balance failed, and my body moved like a toddler trying to get dressed on an air mattress. Everyone thought I was dancing.

The Shambhala Music Festival 2025 drew thousands of people to Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

My friends, knowing I wasn't on anything, kept accusing me of a contact high. Strangers, meanwhile, often thought I was having a bad trip. Please. This is just what I look like when I'm having a good time.

Coumnist David Scherer Water, as seen at the Shambhala Music Festival 2025.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

I lost my bearings in strong winds blowing off the giant speakers. My organs swapped places under the excessive amplification of atonal electronics, liberally punctuated by sternum-throbbing bass drops. I smiled anytime these epochs exceeded 10 measures — an impossible tuba note blown from a dozen lungs. It seemed like dubstep was making fun of dubstep. 

During one of these longer moans of sonic terror, I saw the lips of the DJ moving. She was screaming into her mic, but nothing she shouted could overcome the boom of doom.

The eight-stage odyssey experience

My girlfriend — tall, beautiful, sober like me, yet somehow perfectly in her element — guided our friend group between the eight stages, each one showcasing a different version of the exact same thing. She never lingered too long at one site, and I followed her like she was the light at the end of the tunnel.

A scene from Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

I'd lost the ability to tell when it was time to go. Several times she begged to walk me back to the tent, but I wouldn't hear of it. I wanted to see this to the end. I felt a second wind coming. My brain told my body to dance as hard as it possibly could. 

Deep down inside, I was fine. On the outside, I was in rough shape. Technically, I wasn't dancing. I was, in fact, motionless. I'd fallen asleep against a plaster tree replica. There were concerns that I might be dead. Strangers sent for a team of teenage medics. I jerked awake and gave them feeble reassurances by performing the minimum arm waving, forcing myself to appear celebratory. 

Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

Courtesy of David Scherer Water

The collapse experience

When my girlfriend finally announced it was time for her to go to bed, I knew it was time for me too.

Just before dawn, lying in our tent, I felt my organs drift slowly back to their proper places. I closed my eyes and slipped into the deepest sleep of my life.

In a dream, I found myself falling from the lowest rungs of a ladder of serpents and writhing in a pit of uncooked rice. The king snake had tricked me. I made a speech about the invention of a new kind of air pollution. It wasn't just a dream.

I woke to the heavy scent of diesel exhaust filling the tent. I staggered outside, blinking against the bright sun, heat, and the noise of passing trucks. I walked to the nearby bank of 44 portable toilets. Somehow, as if to confer a strange message from the Gods, all of them were empty.

A water truck at Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

The conclusion experience

Shambhala was everything I feared, and everything I didn't know I needed. I came home with my hearing intact, my sense of humor sharpened, and the knowledge that even inside EDM's loudest heart, there's a soft spot for someone like me. 

Do I recommend the Pacific Northwest's most famous festival to our readers? Oh dear God no. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. But if you do go, you might have the time of your life.

A scene from Shambhala Music Festival 2025 in Salmo, British Columbia.

David Scherer Water | For The JOLT News

David Scherer Water's column is broadening its scope beyond local history — now diving into culture, art, romance (his own), and politics (please, not his own). Over the last four weeks, besides going to Shambhala, he has visited nine Olympia-area churches. We're not sure how many more churches we need to send this non-Christian to check on before we let him publish his upcoming Thurston County Church Guide. Discover more of his work here.