A year ago, six of my friends and I tried sneaking into Coachella, an annual, two-weekend music and arts festival at the Empire Polo Club in Indio, Calif., about two hours outside of LA.

We kept our wristbands on loose enough that we could slide them off, so one of us could walk out of the venue to the rest of the group. It was a slow process, but we all got in without any trouble. At this year’s festival, which started last weekend and finishes this weekend, this strategy did not prove quite as easy, even though I had been comped one ticket from a car dealership.

My friends dropped me off so I could scope out a point of entry since I held the only wristband. However, before me was a labyrinth of two wristband checkpoints leading to the main gate which looked like the mirror image of a gulag, with guards standing at every point of entry and more circling around the campground. Meanwhile, my friends had already given up for the day and set up camp at an abandoned lot a few miles away.

I met a Coachella veteran named Chris, who allegedly snuck in four years in a row, often by jumping fences.

“I was on acid that time and I heard someone yell my name from the crowd inside. I figured it was a sign, so I sprinted for the fence,” said Chris, “When you jump over you feel like a bull, everyone is stopped and you’re all alone for what feels like forever.”

Two people in our group left, saying they would get a hotel for the night and it was just four of us left. We split from the group that seemed to attract attention to us and wished each other luck in our efforts. I can only hope that the ever resourceful Chris found his friend and a way in. Now alone, we cut off the wristband, too tight to slip off, and used a bobby pin to put it back together this way we could easily pass it between us so long as we hid the bobby pin from plain sight.

The three of us decided to split from the group and wished each other luck in our efforts. Now alone, we cut off the wristband too tight to slip off, and used a bobby pin to put it back together. This way we could easily pass it between us so long as we hid the bobby pin from plain sight. We were in.

Our victory was short lived however, as the two that left for the hotel had given up and went home with all of our group’s clothes, food, and camping supplies. While Outkast, and Anti-Flag were great, it loomed over us that: A; We could not leave the campground, and B; We did not have camping supplies or friends with the sort.

But it was this night that I was in the presence of the Replacements, whose pit brought back the essence of Midwest 80’s punk complete with a man taking a drag from his cigarette just before hopping into the pit with it still lit, a sort of poetic beauty to see it in action.

Later that night, someone came up with the idea of asking the volunteers for unused trash bags that would double as sleeping bags.  After getting kicked out of a teepee by security I parted to search for another site on my own. I fell asleep shortly inside a Porta-Potty and got a call from a friend, Freddy, who said they found a group who offered them a place to sleep, only his phone died mid-call before he could tell me where it was.

I wandered, shivering in the Hawaiian shirt and shorts I wore from the day before, and wrapped myself in the trash bag at the late night comedy club that was still doing a show at 5 a.m. Next to me two girls, Alicia and Anne, were watching and noticed my pale skin and chattering teeth. They were in awe of my story and probably assumed I was coming down from some sort of hallucinogenic trip, so they invited me to their campground.

The sun came up as we strolled into their campground and they showed me a tent they were not using and gave me a comforter to sleep on. I awoke to the rest of their group already pre-gaming for their day of festivities with a bag of wine, came out, smiled and introduced myself to the group.

With just three of us to sneak in, we got into the venue in record time, successfully slipping into our new wristbands. Beyond the feeling of exhaustion we managed to still be able to dance to acts like, Disclosure, Chance the Rapper, Calvin Harris, and Neutral Milk Hotel.

Hyped on the spirit of community, I was confident we would find a ride home, even though the other two with me were appropriately more skeptic. We held our signs at the parking lot exit and not even 20 minutes later, we were promised a ride to LAX.

After sleeping for an hour in the airport I went on Twitter and read Freddy’s latest post. It was a picture of the massive mosh pit during Anti-Flag and below it read, “We are animals,” a phrase that never sounded so fitting. Yes we are savage beasts that take what we want and savor every last drop, but we are savage beasts together. I am just now realizing that this is a term of endearment.

There’s power in the presence of camaraderie, and that really is the essence of Coachella. Not some concert promoter behind the walls of the VIP section but in the dirt and grime that surrounds and cultivates a loving, supportive community. We will be back, Coachella, whether you want us or not.