Just so you know, I hate Oktoberfest at Snowbird. Every September, possibly while high, I get this idiotic idea that it might be fun to drive up the canyon, walk a mile through a parking lot, pass a handful of crap-ass craft booths that I see every week at the Farmer’s Market, stand in line for an hour to pay $5 for a pint of the same Uinta or Squatters beer I have sitting in the fridge at home, and then stand in another hour-long line for some cafeteria-style knock-off of German food.