By Jeff Hodges
On August 14th, 1969, we threw some camping gear into a van emblazoned with a big white peace sign and set out for Bethel, NY. We were 18 years old, we had our tickets to the Woodstock Music Festival, and we were ready for three days of peace and music.
We got to Bethel after dark. We parked a couple of miles from the venue, grabbed our gear—reluctantly leaving behind a giant can of peaches—and joined the endless line of concert goers trekking through the night. Hours later we finally reached our destination and set up our tarps and tents under a starless sky.
The rain began before dawn, and soon a stream was running through our encampment. Soaking wet, bleary from lack of sleep, we dragged our waterlogged gear to higher ground and forlornly emptied our sodden backpacks.
It turned out we were near an enclave of roadies for the Grateful Dead, and a couple of them took pity on us and helped us reorganize our campground. When the sun emerged, we spread our gear out to dry, and began to take note of our surroundings.
All around us, there were kids like us. No suspicious cops, no scowling grown ups, just freaks and hippies, as far as the eye could see. Everyone seemed to have a knowing smile, as if we were all privy to a secret unavailable to the outside world.
We spent the day tramping around, sauntering up the Groovy Way, ambling down the Gentle Path, and gamboling along the High Way. We swam naked, smoked weed with strangers, sang to people’s dogs and found faces in the clouds.
In the late afternoon we grabbed our tickets and headed for the gates, only to see the chain link fence come crashing down in front of us. The gatecrashers swept in, hooting and cheering. It felt like a tense moment—with unknown repercussions—but soon the smooth, understated music of Richie Havens calmed the crowd and Woodstock became a free concert.
Music in the mud, rapture in the rain—but after a while the basic necessities started to take precedence. The outhouses were overflowing, the lines at the water stations were endless, and very quickly what little food we had was depleted. It was starting to feel like the outside world was right when they declared Woodstock a disaster area.
Fortunately, there was the Hog Farm encampment. Granola and bulgur wheat for everyone! Wavy Gravy’s commune provided security as The Please Force; nourishment at The Free Kitchen; psychedelic remediation in The Freak Out Tent; and “Breakfast in Bed for 400,000 people!”
At some point one of us stepped on some glass and we had to go to the medical tents. At the pay phones, every kid was yelling “Mom! Stop it! I’m fine! Tell Dad to shut up! I’m with a lot of beautiful people…”
We departed Woodstock Monday morning, just as Jimi Hendrix was finishing his set. As we wound through mountains of garbage, his rendition of The Star Spangled Banner stopped us in our tracks. When that searing musical indictment of America’s hubris came screaming across the post-apocalyptic landscape, it began to dawn on us that the party was ending.
When we got back to the van, there was a girl inside, asleep. She apologized profusely, and hurriedly climbed out, but we persuaded her to stick around and help us eat up the giant can of peaches we had left behind.
