This story is from a few years ago, but unfortunately I do not have a very good picture.
Trust Wikipedia to know everything. Here's a picture of The Gorge Amphitheatre:
The Gorge refers to the Columbia River Gorge in the Pacific Northwest, and the amphitheater picture above is where I went to a concert with a couple of friends. We actually went to two concerts that summer, Tom Petty and Dave Matthews Band, and I think it was the Tom Petty concert that contains this particular memory. Truthfully, it's been long enough, and the concerts were close enough to the same time, that I don't really remember. Anyway, it doesn't matter.
We were sitting pretty far back, not quite as far as the photographer from above, and the concert was rockin'. My favorite part was that whenever an especially good song would come on (Free Falling!) a cloud of smoke would drift lazily across our heads, starting from right next to the stage. And it didn't smell like cigarette smoke!
We enjoyed the concert, and went back to our campsite to have a couple of beers and turn in. That's really all we're interested in--good ol' legal beer--but a lot of the concert attendees were enjoying a much wilder party.
Up to and including the crew in the campsite next to us.
We all got a good laugh at their silliness (that is, while we were still up and moving around), but eventually the fun wore off and they were just annoying. There were four people in their campsite, three boys and a gal, and they were having a hot diggity dog good time.
Eventually, we got sleepy and all went to bed, but our neighbors were still going strong. They had shifted the substance of their party into their tent (all four of them) and seemed to be making use of the enclosed space while working on their deep breathing. No explanation required, I hope?
We all lay in our sleeping bags, listening to the harsh whispers and shushing, wondering when they'd tire themselves out and go to sleep. Or just pass out and shut up.
I'm not sure how long we lay there listening, but slowly we realized that their hilarity had changed to paranoia. We heard one of the boys as he kept saying, "It's all good, man! It's all good." In our tents, bleary eyed and tired, we simply stared up at the ceiling and didn't say a word.
And then . . . it happened.
The exorcism of the sch'roomed-out chick via projectile vomiting. Copious, growling retches, again and again and again. From the depths of her gullet, a backwards waterfall.
A panicked feeling emanated out of their tent and crept around their campsite; we could almost see its shadow pass by our tent. We could hear frenzied scrabbling next door, rustling and sleeping bag zippers, one of the guys exclaimed that he stepped in it. In my campsite it was calm silence as we listened to the agitation next door.
Finally we were able to sleep, and the next morning when we got up, there they all were, tearing down their site too. We expected them to sleep late in the fug of the gal's vomit, but instead they were all up and walking around like nothing had happened. Horrified, we saw one of them casually ball up the tent and throw it nonchalantly in their car without regard for the contents no doubt still sloshing around within it.