A Fur Peace in Time

Was it fate or just the path of least resistance? It’s been 20 years and I still don’t know.

In the autumn of 2004 circumstances too long and boring to explain gave me the opportunity to live pretty much anywhere I wanted. There was no particular reason, no special interest, leading me to one place over another.

I just now wrote how it came to pass that I chose a little tree farm in southeastern Ohio as my new residence. It turned out to be far longer and far less interesting than I hoped, and I deleted it. This story is not about my move to Ohio but instead about a place called Jorma Kaukonen’s Fur Peace Ranch Guitar Camp. Let it suffice for me to say that it was the catalyst for my moving here.

Jorma Kaukonen is one of the finest fingerstyle guitar players in the world. If you have ever listened to The Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” and gotten captivated by that seductive guitar riff at the beginning (along with his boyhood friend Jack Casady on bass), you’ve heard Jorma. He and Jack would spin off the highly successful duet, “Hot Tuna,” during their Jefferson Airplane time; it is still in existence.

In 1990, Jorma came to own a big piece of land in Appalachian Ohio. His wife Vanessa has said she cried all the way from their former home in Woodstock, New York, to their new home in the woods. The details (as well as the stories of The Jefferson Airplane, Hot Tuna, and much, much else) can be found in Jorma’s book, which I would have enjoyed even if I didn’t know any of the characters.

Having written the occasional news release for Jorma, Jack, and Fur Peace Ranch, and due to the publicity company for which I had done it having decided to suspend operation, I was soon after my move their publicist. This meant that I was at Fur Peace Ranch often during my first decade here.

What a place it was! From spring through autumn, just about every other weekend, the place would come alive on Friday, as students arrived from all over the world. Many — referred to as “repeat offenders” — would take classes time after time. They followed many walks of life, but at FPR they were guitar players. Some were rich. Some owned dozens of guitars and were eager to show off their latest acquisitions.

The instructors, all famous in their own right, and for good reason, would hang out with the students between and after classes. The wry Roy Bookbinder (now Roy Book Binder; cut him some slack — it sometimes seemed as if half the world thought he was Leon Redbone) famously held court and sold CDs in the outdoor smoking corner, long into the night on the weekends he was there. G.E. Smith, known among other things for having led the Saturday Night Live band for a number of years, was there every year. The great Michael Falzarano, former Hot Tuna member, leader of the New Riders of the Purple Sage, jam band genius, and really nice guy, would be there a time or two each season. The first time I ever went there for a concert of that weekend’s instructors I met one, Pat Donohue, who was able to come and teach because his radio show, “A Prairie Home Companion” was in reruns. I could go on like this for a while. Tommy Emmanuel, a true guitar musician, was in love with the strawberry-rhubarb crisp made from the rhubarb I grew, made in FPR’s tremendous kitchen using a recipe provided by my friend and FPR instructor Marjorie Thompson. “I come here for this,” he laughed one evening, between bites of an extra-large portion. It was always good to talk and laugh with the great mandolinist and Hot Tuna member Barry Mitterhoff.

While the camp was in session, my duties changed. Publicity, happily, included tasks onsite.

The main faces of FPR were, of course, Jorma and Vanessa (though Jorma didn’t teach or play at every session), and the indispensable John Hurlbut. He was manager of the place. I do not believe there is, ever has been, or ever will be, anyone friendlier or more talented at memorizing the names and details of people he just met. He was everyone’s instant best friend.

Tickets were sold to the Saturday night concerts at the performance hall, Fur Peace Station. People would get their tickets at a little kiosk by the entry gate, manned by “Hurl.” He’d stop and talk with every single car full of music lovers, most of whom he knew or remembered by name. He would then direct them to the gravel parking lot, where a guy with a flashlight — me — would show them where to park.

No one lived on site — Jorma and Vanessa would build a house there later — so someone would have to stay all night in Cabin 1 in case some emergency arose. (I realize I’ve neglected to say that campers would stay in small, very nice cabins, two per cabin. Instructors would get private cabins.) It often fell to me to be the overnight guy, which meant chasing everybody out of the various buildings, where they would have been jamming or talking, at midnight, though I’d often let them stay until 1 a.m. or later — the midnight rule was for the convenience of the overnight guy.

There would frequently be a bonfire in the grassy area behind Hurl’s office. I sometimes built it, John sometimes built it, or we both sometimes built it. Students would gather round, some bringing their guitars, to tell stories and play music. The city dwellers would occasionally get nervous because of sounds from the nearby woods (“You don’t have to be the fastest,” I would tell them, “you just have to not be the slowest.” To city dwellers, woods means bears.)

Occasionally there would be a hiccup. One weekend in 2010, the last camp of the season, a crew from Ohio public television’s “Our Ohio” show drove across the state to do a segment about FPR. It began to pour. Vanessa wanted the crew to film one class, but the instructor didn’t want it there. Vanessa had gone to town, so I was the wrath catcher. I couldn’t leave the crew out in the truly torrential rain. Fortunately, Michael Falzarano was passing by. Sure, he said, they could come to his jam band class. “You can’t disrupt my class!” he laughed. It got worse. The rain was unrelenting. The pedal steel guitar player Buddy Cage wanted to pull right up to the side door of the concert hall, but there were other performers’ cars there. “I have an eighth of a ton of equipment to unload,” said Cage, who himself weighed close to that much. I went to Vanessa. “Why are you telling me?” “Because I want it not to be my problem.” We laughed and Vanessa sorted things out for Buddy Cage.

Anyway, a very nice television story resulted. You should click the link and watch it.

Time passed. People’s schedules, interests, and pursuits changed. Sadly, some completed their lives. The last time I was there was in 2017, a non-camp weekend, to introduce a reporter friend to Jorma so she could do a story about him. It was always there, and I could drop in pretty much whenever I wanted, though I didn’t. But for the most part I’d had my delicious meal of Fur Peace Ranch. The recipe was no longer the same. I figured that when I had time I’d reacquaint myself with the place.

Then came the SARS-CoV-2 virus. You can’t run a music camp if you can’t have campers, but Jorma, Vanessa, and Hurl sure tried. There were regular streaming “Quarantine Concerts,” and online lessons. I do not know the details in this case, but COVID-19 changed everything for many businesses, and FPR seems to have been to some degree among them. As the world came back to life, Jorma and Jack returned to touring. Hurl, a better’n average guitar player himself, recorded an album with Jorma and they sometimes perform live together. Classes continue to be held, though either online or at distant locales.

Some months ago it was announced that FPR would now be Lavender Ranch, operated by Ginger, Vanessa’s sister.

Last weekend was the last Fur Peace Station concert. Jorma described it here.

Fur Peace Ranch hasn’t really figured in my life much for a decade. We all exchange email messages every so often, always waving a hand at the idea of getting together, but never following through.

Even so, I miss knowing it’s there.