For the last few weeks, I've been looking backward. Today, for the final time, the gates open.
Steve Campbell
Chairman & Former Executive Director
Part Five of The Final Chapter — stories, memories and reflections from nearly twenty years behind Scotfest.
By Steve Campbell, Chairman and Former Executive Director
For the last few weeks, I've been looking backward.
At how I became involved with Scotfest almost twenty years ago.
At the volunteers who built it.
At the chaos behind the curtain.
At hurricanes, ridiculous ideas, giant kilts, friendships, mistakes, sacrifices, family and everything this strange Scottish festival has given me — and taken from me — over the years.
But soon, we stop looking backward.
On Friday, September 18, the gates will open.
And for the final time, Scotfest will begin.
That sentence feels considerably stranger to write than I expected.
For forty-six years, Scotfest has operated on one of the fundamental assumptions of event management:
No matter how exhausted you are on Sunday night, eventually someone will say:
"Next year…"
Next year we'll fix that.
Next year we'll move this.
Next year we should book them.
Next year we need more of those.
Next year we'll start earlier.
Next year we definitely aren't doing that again.
And, inevitably, next year arrives.
Until it doesn't.
There is no next Scotfest after this one.
No September 2027.
No opportunity to say:
"We'll catch it next year."
This is it.
September 18–20, 2026. One last time.
Forty-six years is a long time.
There are people who will attend this final weekend whose parents brought them to Scotfest as children.
There are volunteers who have spent decades helping build it.
There are performers, clan representatives, athletes and vendors who have returned year after year.
There are children who grew up here.
Mine included.
There are friendships that exist because two people happened to volunteer for the same Scottish festival.
There are families whose lives intersected with Scotfest.
Businesses that sold here.
Musicians who played here.
Athletes who competed here.
Families who discovered something about their heritage here.
For many people, Scotfest has simply always been part of the calendar.
September comes.
The pipes sound.
And Scotfest happens.
Until now.
Come back.
If you attended years ago but life got busy, come back.
If you used to volunteer, come back.
If your parents brought you when you were a kid, bring your own kids.
If you've always meant to attend but somehow never quite made it, this is probably the year to stop meaning to.
If you come every year, you already understand.
And if you've never been particularly Scottish but enjoy music, food, beer, whisky, ridiculously strong people throwing heavy objects and an atmosphere that occasionally makes very little cultural sense but is tremendous fun anyway...
We'll take you too.
You don't need a Scottish surname.
You don't need a tartan.
You certainly don't need to understand why anyone would willingly wear wool in Oklahoma in September.
Just come and be part of it.
For this final weekend, once again, you'll find Highland athletes.
Pipers.
Dancers.
Clans.
Bands.
Whisky.
Food.
Vendors.
Armored combat.
Highland cows.
Veterans and community organizations.
And thousands of people gathering around a culture that traveled thousands of miles from Scotland and somehow found a home in Oklahoma.
That is still slightly remarkable to me.
I was born in Scotland.
Yet some of the strongest expressions of Scottish culture I've experienced over the last twenty years have happened here.
Not because Oklahoma is pretending to be Scotland.
It isn't.
It created something different.
Something Scottish-American.
Something occasionally traditional.
Occasionally ridiculous.
Frequently loud.
Usually accompanied by beer.
And very much its own community.
I hope people understand that this isn't simply about saying goodbye to an event.
It's about celebrating the people who made the event possible.
The volunteers who arrive before you.
The people who stay after you leave.
The board members who took responsibility when things became difficult.
The sponsors who wrote checks before anyone knew whether the weather would cooperate.
The cities and community partners who supported us.
The clans who preserved history.
The performers who traveled here.
The athletes who competed.
The vendors who took risks beside us.
The people who picked up rubbish.
Fixed tables.
Ran power.
Parked cars.
Answered questions.
Poured beer.
Cleaned toilets.
Moved barricades.
Solved problems.
And quietly did thousands of things most visitors never knew needed doing.
This final Scotfest belongs to them.
An event does not exist because organizers build stages.
It exists because people come.
That sounds obvious, but after twenty years of watching ticket sales, weather forecasts and budgets, I promise you it isn't something event organizers take for granted.
Every person who walks through the gate changes the event.
You create the crowd the musician performs to.
You create the atmosphere the athletes compete in.
You buy from the vendor who took the risk of coming.
You meet the clan representative who spent their weekend sharing history.
You make the sponsor's investment worthwhile.
You make the months of work behind the scenes mean something.
Without an audience, a festival is just a collection of very expensive tents.
So thank you.
To everyone who has ever bought a ticket.
Everyone who brought their family.
Everyone who came back.
Everyone who told a friend.
Everyone who supported Scotfest over forty-six years.
You helped build this too.
In the last part of this series, I admitted something I wish I had understood much earlier.
For almost twenty years, I was usually too busy running Scotfest to properly experience Scotfest.
There was always another problem.
Another radio call.
Another person needing something.
Another decision.
Another place I was supposed to be.
I have probably walked through tens of thousands of Scotfest moments without actually stopping long enough to appreciate them.
That will probably happen again this year.
Something will break.
Somebody will be looking for me.
Somebody will ask me a question they could probably answer by reading the sign directly beside them.
I am completely certain of this.
But at some point over that final weekend, I am going to stop.
Maybe for five minutes.
Maybe for thirty seconds.
I'm going to put the radio down if they'll let me.
Look around.
Listen to the pipes.
Watch the crowd.
And allow myself to think:
Look what we built.
We already know how the weekend will end.
Eventually Sunday evening will arrive.
The vendors will begin packing.
The crowds will thin.
Trucks will appear.
Tents will come down.
Signs will disappear.
Equipment will be loaded.
The temporary city we spent months preparing will begin returning to an empty field.
That happens every year.
Except this time, the feeling will be different.
Because there won't be another setup.
There won't be another September.
There won't be another Scotfest.
We're planning something special for the final moments.
As Celtica plays the last songs of the last Scotfest, we hope to bring together pieces of the festival — pipers, dancers, athletes and others who represent what Scotfest has been — for one final celebration.
I have no idea how I am going to feel when that happens.
I suspect there will be laughter.
I suspect there will be tears.
Probably beer.
Almost certainly somebody asking me an operational question at the worst possible emotional moment.
That would actually be quite fitting.
But we're not there yet.
There will be time afterward to reflect.
Time to dismantle.
Time to settle bills.
Time to empty storage.
Time to decide what happens to forty-six years of accumulated equipment, signs, memories and assorted festival junk.
Time to say goodbye properly.
But first, we have one more Scotfest to put on.
One more time, we'll put on the kilts.
One more time, we'll tune the pipes.
One more time, the athletes will walk onto the field.
One more time, bands will take the stage.
One more time, volunteers will report for duty.
One more time, somebody will discover their clan.
Somebody will attend their first Highland Games.
Somebody will taste their first proper Scotch.
Somebody will buy something they absolutely did not need.
Somebody will make a new friend.
Some child will create a memory they may still be talking about twenty years from now.
That is what festivals are for.
So if Scotfest has ever meant something to you...
If you've ever said you wanted to come back...
If you've ever thought about attending...
If you want your children to experience it...
Or if you simply want to be able to say:
"I was there."
Then come.
Not to mourn Scotfest.
Not yet.
Come celebrate it.
Come make noise.
Come drink something.
Come eat something.
Come throw absolutely nothing unless you are a registered Highland athlete.
Come find your clan.
Come listen to the pipes.
Come laugh with us.
Come remember with us.
Come make one more memory with us.
For forty-six years, people have built Scotfest.
In September, we get to enjoy it.
One last time.
From the volunteer who ended up running the place, to the World's Largest Kilt, to the costs nobody saw — and the farewell.
How one volunteer accidentally ended up running the place — the unglamorous, irreplaceable labor behind forty-six years of community.
READ PART ONE →Hurricane Ike, the picnic table pit crew, a festival that became a temporary city — and all the infrastructure nobody was meant to see.
READ PART TWO →The World's Largest Kilt on the Golden Driller — a sewing machine in Steve's house and a Tulsa Fire Department ladder truck saving the day.
READ PART THREE →The honest face of nearly twenty years of saying "yes" — time, sleep, friendships and moments that can't be reclaimed.
READ PART FOUR →The gates open for the final time. Today, we celebrate forty-six years — and this weekend, we get to enjoy it, one last time.
COMING SOONSeptember 18–20, 2026. Forty-six years come together for one last weekend. Come make one more memory with us.