“Is this a cult?” an attractive, mid-40s woman inquired, accusingly, from the fringes of our circle. She took a sip of white wine from her stemless glass and clinked the massive diamond on her ring finger against its thin wall. My 12 friends were clad in almost the opposite attire—sun shirts and hats, cut-off shorts, bandanas, river shoes and rain jackets.

The sun was setting behind a high school graduation party in Homedale, Idaho. We did not know the graduate or his parents, who were hosting the party, but had found ourselves there because of a social experiment called “Only Music” that my husband, Justin Fountain, dreamed up almost ten years ago. Justin did the first “Only Music” trip alone, then took his band A Brother’s Fountain on the next one. This third trip along the Snake River in rural Idaho was by far the biggest, longest and most extreme iteration. And we certainly put this concept to the test.

What is “Only Music”?

“Only Music” is a busking adventure, a social investigation and a personal odyssey where musicians embark on a journey with only their instruments in tow, traveling from point A to point B. They trade music for everything needed to survive (food, shelter, transportation and money) and sometimes score non-essentials in the process (tattoos, cigarettes, a jet ski ride, beer).

A Brother’s Fountain utilizes these “Only Music” trips to prove to others (and often themselves) that music is valuable, healing and possibly the greatest force for good. Music connects people in ways that conversation can’t. It transcends political and religious boundaries and overcomes socioeconomic barriers more effectively than anything. We’ve always needed music, but if there were ever a time to remember that we need each other, it’s right now.

If it looks like a cult and smells like a cult, it’s probably a cult.

We were in the middle of our nightly ritual, which we call “changing of the guards,” when this woman popped her question. Our TL (trip leader) was about to pass over power to the next day’s TL, who then would choose a high priest (to lead intentional moments and quiet time), a movement maestro (helps us stretch while on these long river trips), a speaker of the house (more of a formality, really) and others. Okay, yeah. Now that you mention it, we could be a cult. However, our system is invaluable when we take on challenging trips like this: 21 days, 120 miles, no food or money, trading music as we go.

“I have a bunch of friends and we don’t do shit like this,” the woman challenged. Her eyes darted worriedly around our circle, as if we were about to sweep her up without consent into whatever the hell this was. Zach Baumann, who is the most eloquent of our group (he’s an Air Force Major and TEDx speaker, do we sound more legitimate now?), attempted to explain “Only Music” and our daily leadership system, underscoring that it’s dorky, not dark. 

She considered this information and replied, “I’m getting out of here,” before stalking away. We all looked at each other, silent for a moment, then burst out laughing because we knew exactly how it sounded. 

What we’re doing on and off the river isn’t creating a cult as much as it is watering a culture: one that overflows with enjoyment, enthusiasm, connection and kindness. We aim to be a life source for the people we meet, encouraging ripple effects of compassion and acceptance. Oh, and we’re always looking for new members. 

Why do trips like “Only Music” matter?

In our daily lives, we are encouraged to isolate ourselves in comfort: order food to the house, turn on a screen or four, use the self checkout, stick some earbuds in during a walk. That’s what we have jobs for, right? To earn money to afford independence and ease, to purchase “happiness,” whose itemized receipt reflects only our favorite feelings. But we know in our bones that this is the most malicious lie ever bottled and sold: up by your bootstraps, stand on your own two feet. Why are we so hell-bent on sturdy soles instead of softer souls?

As I’ve gotten older, my life map has grown more complex, its plans and dreams intertwining with beautiful yet burdensome responsibilities. I get why people need to make more money: to ensure self-sufficiency and protect the things they’ve poured their lives into. It’s getting harder and harder to drown out that anthem of “buy buy buy” with “be be be” and most mornings I wake up as a member of the cult of “human doing,” not human being. 

I wasn’t sure that “Only Music” would be the antidote to this poison, but I was willing to try, and 11 of my closest friends were, too. 

“A Mark, a Mission, a Brand, a Scar”

On May 6th, 2025, we pushed off the shores of the Snake River from Swan Falls Dam. We left our food and money locked in the car, unsure of where our next meal would come from, seeing as how our first 10-mile stretch was devoid of people to play music for. But we were excited, fully present, imaginations engaged, entering a great “perhaps.”

If you’ve ever traveled anywhere, down a river or otherwise, you know the feeling: the next patch of life rolls out like a magic carpet, beckoning for feet to explore it. However, instead of pinned campsites or top-rated restaurants, our map was studded with question marks. 

Like all river trips, this one started slowly, despite the swift water coming out of Swan Falls Dam. I began to settle in around day four, once we figured out our shared rhythm and had a little stockpile of food the guys earned by plucking strings at Dan’s Ferry Service. We started to call our nightly campsites “home,” to reveal new sides of ourselves, to accept the sides of our friends that were sore losers during Monopoly Deal. Removed from much of the daily grind of life, we began to unpeel, leaving dry, hardened layers on the beaches where we made our beds. 

Over 120 miles and 21 days, we let the river change us, guide us and deepen our friendships.

If you’re looking for a cheat code to level up any relationship in your life, living on a raft might be the best way to do it. I can’t say this was the trip of my dreams because it was a journey beyond. It exceeded what I imagined and has now left me speechless (almost), which makes it tricky to share the story. So I won’t try to cover each day, explain every little miracle or tell the tales of countless amazing people we met along the way. We’re making a documentary to show all that. 

But because I want to inspire you to do something like this, too, here are the broad strokes: People showed up in ways I could have never imagined. At almost every campsite, we were greeted by folks with their hands full, arms heavy with supplies from pantries and cupboards, and packs of cigarettes, even though they weren’t sure if we smoked, but hell, it’s “what I woulda wanted if I was on this trip.”

They weren’t wrong: a few drags off a Seneca while watching the sunset hits better than a double cheeseburger with bacon, every damn time. 

A catfish, conditioner, quarters for laundry, pancake mix, five pounds of dried beans, Coca-Colas, rides in and out of town, $800, a lifelong friendship, a tender story about loss, peonies and an invitation into people’s souls. All for a song or two or ten. I’m still not sure it was a fair trade. 

I’m not musical, at least not right now. I joined as a photographer, videographer and writer to capture and share the spirit of this journey. But what I gave also paled in comparison to what I gained. Music took off my skin, guided my spirit around smoky bars, and made it easier to sit and listen to another’s story. To see someone, and love someone, exactly as they were—despite hard lines and party lines and everything in between. My friends’ songs, strangers’ generosity and Justin’s friendship cracked me wide open, allowing the river to come in and wash me clean. 

I think those of us who embark on long river trips forget that this isn’t the norm for most adults. It’s not common practice to share a portable toilet with eight of your buddies, to catch the sunrise and sunset with people that aren’t your spouse or significant other. This is what middle schoolers on summer break do: stay outside all day, consume only chips and Gatorade, laugh until their bellies hurt, head home when the mosquitoes come out in full force and see what’s for supper. Getting to do this as an adult is no small miracle. I hope you never forget that. I hope I never forget that.

On one of the last days of the trip, I got a tattoo of an almond on my butt cheek. It’s part inside joke, part I-want-to-be-less-precious-about-everything, my body included. We all got tattoos from Jennica, who hauled her entire kit to our campsite, set up a folding table and drew little mementos on everyone for over five hours—symbols of our cult membership.

Now, whenever I catch a glimpse of it, I remember to be generous and to trust that people are good. I remember that I need you like rivers need the rain, like bellies need food, like cults need members.

So, are you in?

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Guest Contributor Abby Fountain is a Fort Collins-based photographer and writer who co-runs a family-owned video production company, Stoked Ember. To take a break from screens, she enjoys a walk in the sun, a dip in the Poudre River or a float trip with friends. Find her on Instagram at @abbyloufountain_photo.