Searching for Sunshine: A Ness Creek Story

Article and Photos by Melanie Macpherson

There is no single way to fully describe Ness Creek Music Festival. It’s not just the music, or the forest, or the people. It’s the way all of those things mix together into something bigger—something that feels like stepping into another world.

Last year I created a scrapbook of sorts. This year, I tried to capture that feeling in snapshots. Not photos, but small moments. Moments that, together, tell the story of my weekend.

Readiness

The drive—more than five hours of it—was nearly over. As the winding road pulled us farther from reliable cell service, the anticipation of being close to Ness became almost unbearable. It had been a stressful day at the end of a stressful week, at the end of a tough year. I needed Ness. I needed rest, calm in the storm, and maybe most of all I needed some spiritual sunshine.

But the tension of the road was quickly replaced by the tension of setting up camp. Missing tent pegs, leaky air mattresses, and the eternal game of “I know it’s in here somewhere.” Why wasn’t the Ness working yet? Was it broken? Was I broken? Maybe last year’s incredible experience had been a fluke. Maybe some problems are too big for even Ness to fix.

With the tent finally standing, we walked down to the Forest Garden for an acoustic set. The late-afternoon air was warm and heavy, the kind of heat that makes everything slow down. Bugs buzzed lazily, a breeze drifted through carrying the scent of fresh greenery, and a hint of rain. We were early, so we grabbed paint and canvases from the table near the entrance and settled in to wait. The only prompt for our future masterpieces was “anything forest garden related.”

The space filled quickly with quiet people and loud people, laughing children, and easy conversation. Some painted, some ate, some caught up with old friends, while others inspected the lush foliage surrounding us. It felt like a cheerful family gathering, complete with dinner plates balanced on knees and children running through an obstacle course of legs.

When Chesterfield was introduced and began to play, a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, and for the first time, the tension eased—just a little.

Grayness

The campground seemed to hold its breath as thunder rumbled through the early evening. Rain wouldn’t stop the show, but a thunderstorm might. A few drops fell like warning shots as we set up our chairs on a small rise to the right of the stage.

By the end of Crooked Creek’s set, the first main stage act of the night, we were soaked. The blanket was soaked. Our bare feet were freezing. The rain stopped, but the cool night crept through our wet clothes like chilled fingers searching for warmth that wasn’t there.

I wanted to stay, to prove myself some kind of seasoned festival veteran, but in the end we grabbed our things and headed back to the tent to change.

Cold and tired, my husband opted to stay in the tent and listen to the music from there. But it was the first night, and I didn’t want to miss any of it. So I bundled into warm clothes, wool socks, a raincoat, grabbed my camera and headed back to the downtown stage area.

Through the toe-tapping bluegrass of Heartstrings and Wolf Willow, the cotton-candy pop of Wild Black, and the heavier, psychedelic swirl of Holy Void, I searched. I wandered between downtown and the tent for hours, watching the melting pot of people find their own ways to experience the music… the Ness.

And yet, I still felt off—as though I was doing it wrong. I was in the right places, doing the right things, but I hadn’t found my sunshine. I’d waited months for this moment, for this music, for this place, and I was still missing… something.

I returned to the tent, intending to warm up for a few minutes before the after-hours sets. I crawled into my sleeping bag, sure there was no way I could fall asleep with the stage only one hundred meters away. The next thing I knew, I was hearing Banastronaut’s encore—the final band of the night—and then silence. I promised myself I’d do better tomorrow.

Shininess

The sun sparkled on the water as I eased my oversized two-seat floaty into Nesslin Lake. Seat number two was empty; its rightful owner was content with snacks and sunshine on the beach. But I wanted to get closer—to capture pictures, to soak in the experience, to chase the highlight of last year’s Ness Creek trip.

I wanted to recreate the bliss of Stage of Aquarius, with all its warmth, laughter, and the camaraderie of a flotilla of happy people drifting together under the music. I was open. I was ready to Ness properly.

Beautiful Disasters opened the day, full of energy and life, and for a while I drifted in the middle of it all. Bobbing among a sea of bright colors, unrestrained laughter, and the occasional spray of sun-warmed lake water was exactly what I’d been waiting for.

But after a full set of balancing and steering an oversized floatation device while trying to keep my camera steady—and dry—I was tired. Not unhappy, just tired of trying to stay afloat by myself. So I stopped fighting the current and let the waves take me back to shore.

I sat on the gravelly beach with snacks and drinks, soaking up rays. The Definitelays took the stage next, their music rolling across the lake like golden threads weaving the afternoon together. Now that I wasn’t fighting so hard to hold on to the moment, it became easier just be in the moment… to let a little more sunshine in.

We stayed for the start of Ray the Nihilist, then decided we’d had enough sun and wandered back early, carrying a touch of that warmth with us.

Restlessness

Shotgun Jimmie set the tone for Friday night with a mix of offbeat humor and catchy tunes, the kind of set that leaves the crowd grinning even between songs. I spent the early evening wandering back and forth between our tent and the downtown stage, trying to catch every act through my lens. The “tweeners”—the small sets between mainstage acts—became my soundtrack as I walked the well-worn paths, their melodies rising and fading like echoes through the trees.

When Boy Golden’s prairie-soul grooves rolled out across the field, I was ready to stop wandering. I found friends in the crowd and, like a tide pulling me in, I was absorbed into the mass of bodies gathered in front of the stage. The night air was alive—smoke and dust swirling under the lights, the coolness of evening settling on sun-warmed skin.

Totems swayed above the crowd—LED mushrooms, glowing flowers—beacons of color and playfulness in the dark. Around me, strangers danced and sang like old friends. Henry Wagons followed, wild and theatrical, pulling the audience deeper into the magic.

For a while, I let myself belong completely to that pulse, that color, that chaos. But even in the middle of all that life, I felt something just out of reach—like my own Ness spark was flickering somewhere ahead, but I couldn’t quite catch it.

Maybe the next set. Maybe tomorrow.

Togetherness

The Community Kitchen tent felt like the heart of Ness Creek—a haven of shared stories and simple generosity tucked among the trees. A single long table overflowed with food cooked by kind hands, home-cooked comfort without expectation. All anyone needed to bring was a plate and cutlery. The rest was freely given, although donations are gratefully accepted.

Saturday morning, the tent hummed with music and warmth. Chris Valleau’s guitar came to life effortlessly, his voice mingled with a chorus of others. Earl Pereira and Jade Houle played alongside him, while a circle of musicians—banjo, mandolin, harmonica, flutes, fiddle, and percussion—added their own talents to the mix.

Their folksy reggae jam wove a gentle spell, pulling smiles and sing-alongs from everyone gathered. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with savory aromas, wrapping around the sounds of children’s playful squeals and the soft clatter of plates and cups.

Strangers became companions over shared songs and stories. Old friends met in warm embraces, their faces glowing with the ease that comes from years of connection. Everywhere, there was a sense of belonging—a tender web spun from kindness, music, and the hum of community.

I carried that gentle light with me as I stepped back into the sun-dappled paths, feeling a quiet warmth settle deep inside. It was a small ray of sunshine in a weekend that had sometimes felt overcast—a reminder of why I returned, and what I hoped to carry into the final day.

Wholeness

Saturday night at Ness is its own world. FancyNess is the theme, and people interpret it in every possible way—tuxedos and prom dresses, glittering disco wear, suits of armor, carnival costumes, forest witches and woodland nymphs.

It’s the final night: the moment to let everything go, to leave it all on the forest floor, and let the night envelope you. For some, that means partying with friends until dawn, strengthening connections that fray and weather in the real world. Others seek higher consciousness, a window into self-love and cosmic understanding. And some—like me—seek the lightness of letting go, fully, if only for one night. Knowing the problems will still be there when I get home, but here, for now, it’s okay to set them down and just be.

The heat of the day gave way to a night thick with energy, full of music, food, and an electric kind of anticipation. Christopher Sleightholm and His Beautiful Band closed their set as the dancers of Performances From Around the World gathered on the ground.

Kala Priya’s Indian Classical dance glowed like the last flames of sunset, followed by the fierce stomps and shouts of the Filipino Kumintang Folk Dance Ensemble, and then a riot of colors and movement from the Roma-style dancers that pulled the audience into the action.

As the dust settled, Begonia took the stage. With a personality as colorful as her name and a voice as big as the bow on her head, she drew us in. Amidst the lights, the music, and the laughter… the night truly took flight.

We sat with shoulders touching, wrapped together under a blanket, holding hands, content in the quiet space beyond the stage lights while the music carried everyone higher. In the darkness, I found my sunshine—the healing connection that blooms in a shared moment, a shared night of possibility, or maybe in the simple setting down of a shared burden.

We stayed in our cocoon for the diverse lineup that followed: Olive Forrest, The Burning Hell, Mary Liv, and Pop Pop Vernac, until a shared look told us it was time to go. Then, after a shared look and an unspoken decision, we packed up our chairs and blanket and began the slow walk back to the tent.

We chose the longer, more magical forest path and slipped into a world of ethereal music, fairy lights, mythical forest creatures, and dancing denizens of the deep. Crawling into bed, we were serenaded by the distant trumpets and primal rhythms of Ka Loc, pulling us into a fantastical, swirling voyage across the galaxy—before finally landing in a land of dreams.

Closing

Ness Creek isn’t just a festival. It’s a place that challenges you to show up as you are—tired or hopeful, restless or ready—and invites you to find something beautiful in the moment.

This year wasn’t perfect. I didn’t always find my sunshine where I expected to.

But in the music and the quiet walks, in the kindness of strangers and the glow of shared moments, I found enough sunshine to carry me home.