A Letter form Clarke & Star

To the Lost 40 Community,

The first time we carried sound equipment a mile back into the forest for that very first Lost 40 show, we had no idea what it would become. There was no master plan. No blueprint for a multi-year vision. Just a small team from Iowa following an instinct — a feeling that something meaningful could happen if we gathered people together in the woods and tried.
It wasn’t supposed to turn into this.

And yet, over time, something remarkable happened. That small team grew. Minnesota became home for the project. More people crossed paths with us. More conversations unfolded — late-night talks about what this festival could be, what it should protect, what it should dare to become. And slowly, organically, almost mysteriously, Lost 40 evolved into something far greater than any one of us could have engineered.

No single person can take credit for what this has become. It has been shaped by everyone who showed up — artists, volunteers, families, musicians, children running through camp, late-night thinkers around the fire, people who believed in something before it even had language.

There’s an unspoken meaning that lives inside this festival. An ideology that’s never been written down, never formally declared — but somehow it’s always there. You can feel it in the way people treat each other. In the way space is held. In the way music, art, and conversation weave together. It expresses itself without needing explanation. Watching that spirit take shape year after year has been one of the most beautiful experiences of our lives.

We look forward to many more years of watching this project grow and transform — to see it prosper, to see it venture into new territory, to see it become something new when it needs to, and something different when that’s called for. Lost 40 has never been afraid to evolve. That’s part of its heartbeat.

This festival has meant more to us than we can fully articulate. It has given us direction. Drive. A deep sense of meaning rooted in something larger than ourselves. We’re not even sure who we would be without it anymore. And the truth is — it only exists because you keep showing up.

For the first five years, Lost 40 lived deep in the forest.
Those early gatherings were free, simple, and built almost entirely by hand. Around fifty people would make the journey each year to Pleasant Valley in central Iowa. The path itself was part of the experience. Nearly a mile long, it wound through thick woods where fallen trees had to be ducked under and stepped over. There were two creeks to cross, steep hills to climb, and stretches that turned to mud after rain. It was not an easy walk, especially when carrying speakers, instruments, tents, food, lanterns, and other supplies piece by piece into the woods.
But when the trail finally opened into the clearing, the difficulty of the journey melted away. There would already be a fire glowing somewhere in the trees, smiling faces around it, music drifting through the forest air. People laughing, cooking, tuning guitars. The effort of the walk somehow made the arrival sweeter. The destination meant more because it had to be earned.

Over time, a small amphitheater took shape on a hillside overlooking the river. People could sit on the slope and look down toward the performers with the water moving quietly behind them. It was humble and handmade, but it felt almost as if the forest itself had offered the space.

That long and difficult path also protected the gathering in ways no one had planned. Because the festival lived so deep in the woods, it was difficult for authorities to intervene quickly. By the time anyone might discover where the event was happening, dismantling it would have meant days of work hauling equipment back out through the same rugged trail. In a strange way, the forest allowed the gathering to remain hidden. The community learned how to move quietly into the woods, set up, and build something beautiful before anyone even realized where it was.

For a time, the local Department of Natural Resources officer seemed comfortable letting the gathering exist. But as the years passed and the event slowly gained attention, the state began to look more closely. Attorneys became involved, and the law-enforcement side of the DNR grew increasingly concerned that the festival might someday grow large enough to damage the forest.

Their philosophy was simple, though difficult for the community to accept: human presence in the forest was seen as inherently harmful. The safest version of nature, in their view, was a landscape untouched by people. The idea that a community could gather, celebrate, and still care for the land was something they seemed unwilling to believe.

Yet stewardship had always been a core part of the gathering. Every year, the site was meticulously naturalized after the festival ended. Compacted soil would be turned and loosened. The forest floor would be re-duffed — sticks, leaves, and ground cover carefully raked and scattered back across the area so that seeds could return to the soil and vegetation could regrow. Within weeks — sometimes even a month — the land began reclaiming itself, and before long it was often impossible to tell that a campsite had ever existed there at all.

Even the DNR’s own attorney acknowledged at one point that the gathering was protected under the First Amendment and upheld by state law so long as the event remained non-commercial. And yet, the pressure continued.

One year Clarke was arrested for allegedly damaging the ground with a campfire. This was in a primitive camping area where campfires were generally allowed, and where fires had been permitted during previous years of the gathering. The fire pit had been dug properly and the area restored afterward, but the charge was based on a photograph taken during the event itself — before the naturalization process had taken place. That image was used as evidence even though the site was later returned to its natural state.

The conflict slowly drained energy from the community. And while the legal pressure mounted, the physical labor of producing the festival remained enormous. Every speaker, every piece of equipment, every tent and supply still had to be carried a mile into the forest and a mile back out again. Many people helped each year, but inevitably there would come a moment at the end of the gathering when most had gone home and the final work remained.

More than once, Clarke stayed behind in the woods for several days after everyone else had left — restoring the land, packing the last equipment, and carrying everything back down the long trail.

By the fifth year, the strain was beginning to show. That year the gathering moved next to the road in hopes of easing the burden. Instead, the Conservation Department impounded the community kitchen. It was eventually returned, but the moment felt like a breaking point. Spirits were low. Most people had already packed up and gone home. Only Clarke and Gnarly remained in the forest.

And then the phone rang.

Star had an idea. She knew of a farm in eastern Iowa where small music gatherings were sometimes hosted. The property belonged to Troy, and for a modest fee the festival could move there — onto private land where the constant conflict with law enforcement might finally end.

That decision changed the course of Lost 40 forever.

For the first time, the gathering charged an entry fee — fifteen dollars — simply to help secure the land where it could safely exist. What might have felt like the end of something slowly revealed itself to be the beginning of a new chapter. People were relieved to know the event had a home where it wouldn’t constantly be threatened with shutdown. The small ticket price mattered far less than the peace of mind it brought.

In some ways, leaving the forest felt like losing a battle.
But sometimes the strongest path forward is not to keep fighting the same fight forever. Sometimes it is to step aside, change course, and allow something new to grow.
And from the very beginning, Lost 40 has never been afraid to evolve when evolution is what keeps the spirit alive.

At Troy’s farm, something almost magical began to happen.
What had once been a small gathering of around fifty people quickly grew. One year it was 150. Then it was 275. Word spread quickly, carried through friendships, conversations, and the quiet reputation that something special was happening there. People arrived curious and left feeling like they had discovered something rare.

But moving to private property did not mean the challenges disappeared.

As the festival grew, municipal governments began stepping in. Event permits were required. Insurance had to be obtained. Camping permits were added to the list. Altogether, these new responsibilities introduced roughly three thousand dollars in expenses each year. For the first time, the community had to reckon with the reality that the gathering could no longer exist purely on goodwill and volunteer labor alone.

The ticket price began to evolve with the event itself. What had started at fifteen dollars slowly moved to thirty, and eventually to fifty dollars per ticket — still modest by festival standards, but enough to help carry the growing responsibilities of hosting the event.

At the same time, the community began to recognize something deeper about the nature of free events. Many people hold down full-time jobs during the week and come to a festival on the weekend hoping to relax, reconnect, and enjoy the experience. Meanwhile, those without full-time jobs often have more time available to invest in the community and end up taking on much of the physical labor that makes the event possible. The result can be an uncomfortable imbalance, where the people with the least amount of wealth end up volunteering their time to create an event for people with the most amount of wealth.

That realization led to a quiet shift in philosophy. Many people with stable jobs were more than willing to contribute financially. They understood that money, imperfect as it may be, is one of the tools our society uses to share responsibility. Charging a modest ticket price helped distribute the burden more fairly and allowed the community to support the people whose labor made the gathering possible.

And once tickets existed, another natural question emerged. Musicians and artists — the very people who gave the festival its voice — began asking whether they too might be compensated for their time and talent. It was a fair question, and one that reflected the growing maturity of the event. Like many things, it contributed to the slow upward pressure on ticket prices as the festival continued evolving.

Even with that growth, Troy’s farm was never a large space. The entire property was only about two acres. As attendance climbed toward 250 people, the site became tightly packed. Cars had to park nearly bumper to bumper. Tents filled every open patch of ground. At one point the community even organized the campground into something resembling a grid of small streets just to make sure everyone could fit.

It was crowded, chaotic, and somehow still full of life. But it also became clear that the festival had once again outgrown its home.

Not long after, another opportunity appeared.

The community discovered Jack McGowan’s farm in Mankato, Minnesota — a beautiful piece of land with open park space, a playground for children, and room for the gathering to breathe again. For many who have attended Lost 40 in recent years, the experience of driving down the road toward Jack’s farm feels almost like coming home to something magical.

And just as it had before, the festival continued to grow.

Attendance rose from a couple hundred people to more than five hundred. Once again the space filled with tents, laughter, music, children playing, and long evenings around shared meals. In many ways, the farm has become the place where the deeper traditions of Lost 40 truly took shape — the dinner circles, the safe space philosophy, the community activities, the children’s camping areas, and the quiet understanding that this gathering belongs to everyone who helps create it.

If anything, the years at Jack’s farm have proven something that many in the community already suspected.

What happens at Lost 40 resonates with people.

Coming into the 2026 season, we received some difficult news.
At 88 years old, Jack McGowan was no longer physically able to manage the campground or continue hosting multiple events on the property each year, and his family was preparing to wind things down and enjoy some well-earned quiet days at home.

There were also financial realities we could no longer ignore.

For all of the years Lost 40 has existed, Clarke and Star have organized the festival without receiving a single dollar in compensation. Last year alone, the porta-potties were paid for entirely out of their own pockets. Star lost a full week of wages in order to be present for the festival, and Clarke stepped away from work for nearly three weeks to organize and run the event. Between lost income, travel costs, and direct expenses, Clarke and Star personally lost nearly $5,000 hosting the festival.

That simply isn’t a sustainable way to keep something like this alive long-term.

If Lost 40 is going to continue into the future, it can no longer rely on one or two people carrying the weight of the entire operation. The festival needs a real structure — a team of people working together, each responsible for their own piece of the puzzle.

So during this past off-season, we studied, researched, and began building a new foundation for how this event can sustain itself for years to come.

We are building a team — creative directors, stagehands, organizers, ground crew, and support staff — so that the responsibility is shared across the community instead of resting on just a few individuals.

We also began searching for a new home.

After reaching out to nearly thirty venues across Minnesota — most quoting prices around $15,000 — we found a privately held nature preserve near Mankato willing to work with us for about half that. Still significantly more than what we’ve paid in the past, but the only viable path forward.

What we found there is something truly special — over eighty acres of prairie, forest trails, water, and space to breathe. In many ways, it feels like a return to where Lost 40 first began.

This year, in order to support that move and build a sustainable structure, the festival will grow slightly in scale. Ticket numbers will increase, and some pricing will adjust. At the same time, we remain committed to accessibility — with roughly half of tickets still priced at $100 or less.

We are not trying to become a massive commercial festival.

After this year, the goal is not continued expansion — but stability.

The conversation is already shifting toward something bigger: purchasing land of our own and developing a space where this community can gather not just once a year, but more regularly — even year-round. A place where this energy can take root.

As Lost 40 enters its 10th anniversary festival, this year is a turning point.

If we reach our ticket sales goals early, everything changes. Advertising — which typically takes up around 25% of an event’s budget — can be turned off sooner, and that money goes directly back into the festival.

If every person who came last year returns and buys two tickets, we would sell out immediately and free up roughly 20% more of the budget to invest into the experience itself.

And beyond that, moving toward owning land has the potential to remove another 25% of costs tied to rental, while making permitting and long-term operations far more efficient.

This is a moment where community support has a direct and immediate impact.

Buy early. Bring someone new. Share the event.

And looking ahead to 2027, the goal is to reach a point of critical mass — where the festival no longer needs to fight to grow, but instead sustains itself through the strength of the community that already believes in it.

Because at its heart, Lost 40 has never just been an event.

It has always been a living expression of what happens when people choose to come together — to build something with care, with intention, and with trust in one another. And in a world that feels increasingly divided — where so much of what we see in the news media pulls people apart — spaces like this have become increasingly rare.

Here, we have the opportunity to set that aside. To meet one another simply as people. To remember how much we actually share when we’re not focused on how we’re different.

Year after year, we’ve watched something take shape that feels more and more meaningful — a space where people can show up fully, where creativity is shared freely, and where community is something lived in real time.

What we are stepping into now is not just another year of the festival. It is the beginning of something larger.

And if you’ve ever felt that something here matters — then you are already a part of it.

And what comes next… we build together.

With gratitude,
Clarke & Star