On the Road to Woodstock -part one

It was a long bus ride, two bus rides actually. We left from Falls Church, my cousin and I, where we boarded the chartered bus that was destined for Woodstock. We got rolling around eight in the morning and had been on the road for about an hour when the driver pulled over on the side of a country road. He got out and after a few minutes he climbed back in. Engine trouble he told us. Another bus would be on its way. We all piled out and stretched our legs and wound up sitting on a hill by the side of the road while we waited for the new bus to come.

John, my cousin, was 17, three years older than myself, and I idolized him. He had caught the hippie movement full swing and passed his experiences, as well as his drugs, on to me. At 14, I had been the first kid on my block to smoke pot and take acid. Pot, I was not so crazy about, but I loved to trip.

John and I sat on the hill along with the other forty or so passengers, and he and I talked of music and drugs and girls and sex, and though I knew nothing about the last, I was eager to learn, but to shy to actively pursue. There were groups of twos and threes and a few of four or more. Joints were being passed around among a select few, and occasionally the familiar aroma would make itself present.

Soon, the other bus arrived, and we all climbed aboard to resume our trip northward. John and I slid into the seats behind two girls who were quite good looking. After a few minutes we were back on our way to Woodstock again and the excitement swelled only to be replaced too quickly by the boredom of the road. I was daydreaming when John nudged me on my shoulder. The girl in front of him had long flowing hair that partially cascaded over the back of her seat. John reached forward and pinched a bit between his fingers and held it for a moment. "She can't feel it," he whispered. He snickered and let go of her hair. He was like that. He liked to flirt with girls. I hadn’t the courage for it.

Eventually I dozed off, and I drifted in and out of sleep for a long time. It must’ve been from getting up at 6 AM. That was too damn early for me. Last dream I remembered I was out on the boat with my dad only we weren't out on the bay as usual, but making our way up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Capitol. We were in water, but it was only a few inches thick, and I was sure we would either run aground or tear up the prop, but onward we went. Then my dad said to me, "We're here," but in my cousin's voice, and I felt myself slowly awaken.

The bus had stopped and looking out the window I saw we were on the side of the road next to a recently harvested cornfield. A few hundred feet ahead our road intersected with another two-lane highway that was jammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Alongside the cars was a motley procession of people, some carrying coolers or camping gear. We must have been close to the concert grounds.

"I'm not getting in that mess," the bus driver said. "You can get out and walk or stay with the bus. I don't care."

"How much farther?" a girl asked.

"I couldn't say,” the driver replied. “Never been up here before,"

A few people started to get out of their seats. I looked at John "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. What do think?"

I looked at my watch. It was 5:30. "I don't feel like waiting here. You want to just start walking?"

"Yeah, might as well, I guess."

We got off the bus and gathered our things from the storage compartment of the bus. We had a couple of borrowed sleeping bags and air mattresses, and I had my older brothers 35mm camera. But before we picked up our stuff, we joined a group of people who were using the relative privacy of the cornfield to relieve themselves. Not far away an older man dressed in work clothes was complaining loudly to a New York state trooper.

"Those goddamn hippies are pissing all over my land. Aren't you going to do something about it?" By the tone of his voice it wasn't a question.

"And just where would you expect them to go?" asked the trooper pointedly.

All right! Score one for the hippies. John and I went and took care of our business and returned and got our stuff. Then we began our way towards the longest damned line of traffic I'd ever seen. We got to the intersection and joined the procession.

John had on a collared shirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of Frye boots. I had on the same except for the shirt. I wore a take-off on the old long johns. It was off-white, collarless, long sleeved shirt with buttons partway down in the front. Only difference was it was a lightweight cotton instead of long john material.

We walked for a while. At first it seemed that the traffic was completely stopped. We were walking past the cars, but every so often the would move for a bit.
They would stop then move, stop then move. I picked a car and kept an eye on it. After about a half an hour I turned to John. “You know the cars are keeping up with us. We should ask somebody if we can get ride.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

I started to watch for someone I’d feel comfortable asking. After a few minutes we came up beside a lone guy in a two-door sedan. I looked in at him through the passenger door window. “Hey,” I said.

He looked over. “Yeah?”

“Can we get ride with you.?”

He paused a second. “Sure, hop in.”

I opened the passenger door, tossed my stuff in the back seat and jumped in. John followed suit and the three of us sat there silently in the front seat of this guy’s car sitting in a single lane of traffic that seemed to stretch on forever. I looked at my watch. It was quarter to seven. We moved forward by increments of twenty or thirty feet every few minutes. It was slow, but it was better than walking. Besides, we were moving just as quickly.

“Fuck this,” the driver said. He pulled over into the left lane and floored it. Pretty soon we are flying past the traffic, which was well and good, but I was waiting for us to come face to face with a car coming the other way. We made it about a mile, and then we came to stop behind a second lane of traffic going the same way we were. Holy shit, this was crazy. Both lanes going the same way. And stopped. Again, the driver pulled to the left, this time onto the shoulder, and he takes off. Again, we make it about another mile. This time the same thing, another lane of traffic moving the same way. I looked over at the other shoulder. Same thing, a lane of traffic. Four lanes of traffic, bumper-to-bumper, on a two-lane highway. I began to realize that this was something bigger than I had ever imagined.

“Damn it,” the driver said. “I’m going to park.” He pulled off the shoulder onto the grass, and he parked his car along with scores of other cars that were parked there. The whole damn place looked like one gigantic parking lot. It was nuts.