Jump first, you never know what's lurking beneath the surface and a busted leg beats a broken neck any day. The trestle was a noted weekend attraction for indestructible teenagers who had a sense of adventure or were simply too cool to be seen at the "public pool". This was long before "Water Parks" and Six Flags was just a few years old. You were left to your own devices to come up with an exciting weekend and jumping off the lofty train trestle seemed like a good idea at the time. The long bridge carried trains north and south over Lake Lewisville running along side I-35 between Dallas and Denton. The northeast side of the bridge was the "jump-off" spot, easy access to the tracks and a small tree-covered bank to relax on after testing your nerves and receiving a turbo enema from the 60 foot leap. Brave souls were eventually goaded into diving which usually culminated in an effort that would score low on any judge's scorecard and high on any idiots checklist. Spotters kept the coast clear of random boats and the occasional train. Bob Maret and I had been there for around 45 minutes when a hitchhiker caught our act and asked if he could join in. Being of long hair we decided he was okay. Showing him the route to the top of the trestle and assuring him that if he succeeded in hitting a spot of water that was roughly 10 feet in diameter he would land in a deep debris free zone. The 10-foot circle looked like a hoola-hoop from 60 feet up but John (I think that was his name) made the leap with little hesitation. He made several more jumps before coming over to rest at our shaded spot on the bank. "Where's the Dallas International Speedway?" John asked. We told him it was just a few miles down the road. He then told us something that freaked us out. He was in town to work at the Festival. We had been trying to figure out how to get jobs at the festival but we had not had any luck. John said that a meeting was scheduled at noon in the parking lot of the Speedway to get the crews started. John didn't know it but he was our new best friend and he was going to get us in the door. We had about 30 minutes to get to the Speedway so we scrambled to the car. This was too good to be true. About 60 or 70 people were in the parking lot when we got there. One guy was talking and getting a head check of who was there. The "crew" was from all over the country, some from California, some coming down fresh from Woodstock and others from other far off places. The one thing they had in common was music festivals. Stage builders, electricians, cooks, stagehands, etc. all of them specialized in one thing or another. Our specialty . . . being in the right place at the right time and the luck of having John stumble into our Trestle Olympics. Soon the guy looked straight at us, this is it, he's gonna tell us to leave, "You guys will be in charge of the barrels, got it?" "Yes sir, we got the barrels!" Barrels? Who cares, we got a job on the TEXAS INTERNATIONAL POP FESTIVAL! After all of the assignments were handed out and the crowd was moving towards the site we approached the Honcho and requested a quick leave of absence so we could go grab some stuff and come back. He said "Make it quick! And if you know any other good workers bring them back with you!" We hauled ass! "Your doing no such thing!" mom yelled, "You're barely 19 and you don't know what kind of people are working at this thing." I continued throwing clothes and stuff in a bag as she continued to put her foot down. "These are professionals Mom!" I pleaded, "they don't bring in carnival operators to run Pop Festivals" Dad walks in, he's cool, he'll see it my way . . . I hope. "How long is this going to take?" Dad quizzed. "10 days, tops." I said confidently. Dad knew that I had tried to hire on at Concerts West and with several other regional concert promoters over the past few months and had gotten the royal snubbing. "Okay, I think this will be good for you" he said. "Jack?" Mom said, "He'll be okay and it's only 35 miles down the road." Dad was the best. Bob Maret was packed and in the driveway when I came out with my gear. Bob had been living with us for a several months. He had to get out of his place for some reason and my folks graciously let Bob move in with us for a while. As we piled into the car Randy Minter came tooling through our circle drive on his three-wheeled snow cone machine, the tinkling of bells accompanied his arrival. Randy's dad had converted three old US Mail scooters into snow cone machines, kind of like small Ice Cream Trucks. Randy, his dad and his brother Ricky sold snow cones all over town. "What's going on guys?" Randy asked. Bob and I frantically told him the whole incredible story. "Can I go?" he asked. "Hell Yeah" we responded. Randy parked the snow cone machine in our driveway and piled in the backseat of my car, he didn't even want to go to his place to get his things. Randy had a plan, he just didn't know it yet. We also grabbed Jay Wooldridge since he lived close by. Jay and I had been friends since we were 5 or 6 years old. Scoring Points