The Road to Woodstock

The Road to Woodstock

By George Thoren

Forty years have past since Woodstock. It was a pivotal episode in my life, one that forever changed the way I view life and people. To me, Woodstock wasn’t just a music festival, it was a spiritual event; so beautiful and wondrous that the only thing in my life that compares is witnessing the birth of my sons. No video, movie or story will ever be able to recreate the sense of freedom, the feeling of unity, or the many tiny actions and reactions that took place on that field, – sparks flew in all directions and a half-a-million people made a truly magical connection.

I was 20 years old, aimless with no particular ambition, working at a Phillips 66 gas station in a small southern California town, pumping gas in the hot summer sun and watching people come and go, wondering where life would take me.

I was bored to tears watching other people traveling off to distant destinations. And, I faced a court date on a drug charge that was serious enough to put me in jail for a while. In my right-wing, John Birch Society, crap-hole of a town, any anti-war, anti-establishment movement was quickly and fiercely quashed –like the protestors at the Democratic Convention in Chicago the previous year. You couldn’t question authority, or the law or you’d end up on somebody's "list" and that always ended up bad -- for you! Lots of people smoked pot – but it seemed like only the hippies and demonstrators were arrested for it, and that accounted for nearly everyone I ran with.

Somewhere I saw an announcement for “3 Days of Peace & Music”. It had a drawing of the neck of a guitar with a big white bird sitting on it. The event was to take place at Woodstock, New York, beginning on August 15th. The Promoters delayed the start by a week, so there was confusion right away. Tickets bore a hefty price tag: $6 per day, if you bought them early. Prices climbed for late purchasers – up to an astronomical $9 for the last day.

Rumor had it that some really fantastic music was going to happen, non-stop for those three days: The Who, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Janis Joplin, Canned Heat, Santana, Jimi Hendrix. According to my sources, even Bob Dylan was reportedly “in negotiations” with the promoters. I had to go to Woodstock to check this out.

The idea of a “road trip” was pretty damn appealing. I needed to get away, but I also knew I had to be back in town for my upcoming court date. I couldn’t convince any of my friends to go, so I drew my cousin, Tim, into my crazy road-trip scheme.

It wasn’t difficult; Tim’s version of craziness far exceeded mine. He was always open to new things, and he had resources – access to a reliable car, money and drugs. The fact that Tim resembled a miniature Dylan (long hair frizzed out in all directions), had a quick wit, and was easy to get along with also helped. Tim was sure to be a valuable asset to any long-range road trip. So, we gassed up his mother’s blue 1966 Plymouth Valiant station wagon, gathered up a week’s supply of the necessary drugs – speed, acid, and pot – and headed east into the unknown.

We drove all night the first night. I’ll never forget the darkness and the incredible brightness of the desert stars, slowly yielding to a clear new day, as we sped through the Arizona desert. Strange how some things are blazed in your memory. The drive through Arizona was one of those events, where all at once, “back home” became a distant memory and all I could see was the future.

We hit Oklahoma sweaty, smelly, bleary-eyed and in need of food, water, and rest. I turn off of Route 66 after seeing a road sign directing for Catholic School for Boys. Cousin Tim had been an altar boy in his formative years, and he felt his knowledge of the church, his alter-boy karma, and penchant for verbal "bull" should be good for something. Aside from our hunger and exhaustion, we were of course, in search of redemption.

Tim explained our cross-country trek to a music event to the headmaster, and we were immediately touted as wandering heroes. We were treated to hot showers, clean towels, and fresh clothes. They even invited us to share a meal with the boys. We were role models! Hell, we had secured Lewis-and-Clark-explorer status amongst the Catholic brethren and we hadn't even crossed the Mississippi! Suddenly, the road trip to Woodstock didn’t seem quite so asinine. Our spirit of adventure was accepted – even rejoiced in – from this unlikely source.

A couple of hours of rest, with our bodies (and our souls, to some extent) cleansed and our stomachs full of something other than beef jerky, we jetted off in the Valiant, feeling that kind people still existed in this indifferent world. Little did we know the magic of Woodstock had begun.

After Oklahoma, the rest of the drive was one long blur. The Interstate System wasn't that completed, but we had no road maps to lead us; we just kept heading east toward New York City. 50 odd hours of driving later, we crossed the Hudson River and arrived in the heart of Manhattan. I had figured that once we hit New York City, all we’d have to do is stop and ask someone where Woodstock was, and they’d tell us. Well, I was wrong! It was the middle of the night and we drove in circles for what seemed like hours before a cabbie finally pointed us in the right direction.

The sun was coming up when we finally got on the highway headed north. We were tired, and really confused about where we were going. What was the number of the turnoff for that highway? After the turn, we had it nailed! Woodstock was straight ahead – according to the signs. Soon, there was traffic, lots of traffic. We were at least 20 miles from Woodstock, in one hell of a traffic jam, on a small, two-lane road going who knows where. I figured there must be an accident, or road construction with a detour – sure to get us even more lost.

It wasn’t long before the two-lane road going two directions, turned into a two-lane road going one way. Not officially sanctioned – but simply created by people like us, driving to Woodstock. Everyone was smiling and happy, their long hair and floppy hats gently blowing in the breeze. The car windows were open and the sweet smell of pot flowed through the air.

Tim and I gained immediate status because of the Valiant’s California license plates. Back then, California was viewed as a progressive state – though I can’t understand why. It must have been the San Francisco influence that made the state appear liberal. It certainly wasn’t liberal where we were from! But, happy to be accepted, we crept slowly along the two lanes of barely-moving traffic. Everyone was talking to one another, passing joints back and forth and from car to car, and no one tried to intervene – even though we were doing it right out in the open! It was incredible!

A beautiful girl with long, naturally black curly hair opened her window to talk to me – probably because of our celebrity status. Her thick New York accent, dark blue eyes, and stunning features with all that curly hair, was directed straight at me, and I was totally and absolutely in love! A voice deep in my mind said nothing would ever happen between us physically, but as I looked into her eyes and touched the warmth of her soul and I sensed she had touched mine. Our eyes locked what seemed like an eternity, and then the traffic drew her away. But the deep momentary connection was like nothing I have ever experienced since. The magic of Woodstock was upon me.

As we inched along through and past the town of Woodstock, State Troopers appeared on the side of the road, paying absolutely no attention to the marijuana smoke and other going’s on. People were actually offering the officers pot and they didn’t care. I didn’t see any Troopers smoke it, but no one seemed to be getting arrested, or even hassled. The Troopers were actually there to “Serve and Protect,” and that’s all they were doing. They smiled and laughed with us, and we got high and higher.

“Bethel,” they said good-naturedly. “If you get anywhere close to Bethel, pull off the road and find a place to park, anyplace.” So, that’s what we did. We were good California Catholic Hippie Boys! Others just said to hell with it, and left their cars in the road. Their parking didn't bother me, but Walter Cronkite and the other media anchors saw it differently. It was as if reporters were being strong-armed into negative reporting of this event. Of course, we didn't know or care.

Our marathon drive finally at its end, we stepped out of the car & heard a low rumble somewhere ahead. We took what we needed to sit on, old pillows, a blanket, and a tarp, and joined the crowd walking toward the site. There was a shared feeling among these music followers. It felt like a wave of togetherness among one long group of nutty people who couldn't turn back if they wanted to -- and they didn't.

Some people were dressed in full "flower power" costume – Indian prints and paisleys, Nehru shirts, love beads, bell-bottom pants, and hats of all kinds. If we’d have taken all the offers of drugs presented, we would never have made the concert. Some didn’t. Mini-communes and camps spontaneously rose up along the roadside, where party-goers set up and do what they do -- party.

Soon we saw a sign that said “Concert” with arrows pointing out the direction. The crowd was starting to get really packed in, but we continued moving forward as a unit. This event seemed so different from what we were used to in California: No cops with riot gear; in fact, no apparent security at all, there was a sense of peace and togetherness, and everyone just did what they needed to do without any hassles. Having only been to California concerts, I figured this just must be how things are done on the East Coast.

We finally came to a long fence and to our right and we could see the entrance. As the crowd turned toward it, suddenly the concert workers began yelling, "IT'S A FREE CONCERT, MAN! THROW YOUR TICKETS AWAY IF YOU HAVE THEM! IT’S FREE!”

We entered past unmanned Ticket gates, and stood, overwhelmed, surveying an enormous vista of humanity, filling what looked like a perfect, natural amphitheatre. Tim and I both kept muttering things like "Oh My God" and "Holy Crap" over and over. We could never have expected anything like this event. I don’t think anyone imagined so many frigging people would show up in this one small place.

The music obviously drew many people together -- but this many? I was stunned. The "Hell" I knew back home; my meaningless job, my court date, the Vietnam War, the assassinations, and the hopelessness I felt for myself and this country was nearly gone. Instead, I felt part of a new humanity. People were coming together, through music, to change, to bring about a new freedom. It provided an overwhelming sense of hope and wonder.

We looked around trying to find some small spot of ground to claim. Tim noticed there was some work going on near the stage. A large, tall wooden fence stood in front of the stage, and workers were trying to keep the crowd moving so the area between the fence and stage would remain clear for an ambulance in case of an emergency. Tim meandered down there and, using his innate and cunning observation skills, deducted that these poor, harassed and hassled guys needed a break. I could see Tim’s quick mind scheming as he watched the guys attempting to do their job. He started up a conversation with the workers, and we formed a friendship of sorts. Soon, we were asking people to move along and helping the workers to keep the area clear. We became their allies. When their walky-talky called them to help with an incident backstage, we offered to continue keeping the area clear for them. "Thanks man, really, thanks, thanks a lot!” they exclaimed gratefully as they left.

We told a few people to keep moving, but our hearts weren’t really in it, so we spread out the tarp and claimed our spot! Eventually the emergency vehicle egress filled with others like us, seeking and finding the very best spot at the concert.

There was a lake in the distance. It became the designated get-naked-and-splash-around place. I never saw any open sex as reported elsewhere -- but there were many people splashing around in their nakedness, seemingly without a care. I was just amazed at how uninhibited, open and free everyone was. We weren’t in Southern California, anymore!

Occasionally we’d hear announcements over the PA system. The announcers tried very hard to be helpful to the crowd. Once, a metallic voice screamed out over the PA, "The brown acid is BAD, stay away from the brown acid." It was mind-boggling to attend a concert where the promoters actually seemed to be concerned for your safety – they not only openly admitted that the crowd was doing drugs, but wanted to help protect us from the bad drugs!

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