.

By Michael Pellegrini

 

i.

In 1970, Federal Way in Washington state was a small suburban backwater of the greater Seattle metropolitan area.  In its myriad streets and byways was a sea of nearly identical tract homes, thrown together to house workers for the massive Boeing plants south of the city.  Federal Way was where tired housewives sat at kitchen tables living the American Dream, trading gossip over endless cups of coffee, conspiring together against the waxy yellow buildup on their linoleum floors. 

Rather dull on the surface, but for a person fresh out of high school, it was just right.  Everything we wanted was there, albeit mostly hidden from the prying eyes of our parents.

Our clandestine lives centered mostly around sex, drugs and rock and roll, the forces which sustained us even in that vast wasteland of suburbia.  Because back then, love was still free, lids of good weed were only ten bucks, and music was vibrant and new. 

Rock and roll was by far the most important part of our lives, enjoying an almost sacrosanct status among our ranks.  Each new record was listened to with reverence, each personnel change in a band was carefully scrutinized, because music was truly what we lived for. Every last subtle nuance of a song, every possible permutation or effect of a new line-up in a band would be examined in detail before we could rest.  A discussion on the meaning of a song could go on for days or weeks; or for instance, if George Harrison were rumored to be planning a tour with Ravi Shankar, many more hours could be consumed in rife speculation on what that portended for rock and roll. 

We had much to talk about that year.  The Beatles had just broken up, but the consensus was that they'd get back together soon.  Neil Young was playing with Crosby, Stills and Nash, and Eric Clapton played with Stevie Winwood, then later, with Dave Mason and finally, Duane Allman.  It went on and on.  And then of course, there was Woodstock.

In 1969, less than a year before, more than a half a million hippies converged on Max Yasgur's farm in upstate New York, and gave birth to the Woodstock Nation.  This was the absolute highest incarnation of our Holy Trinity. 

We were certain a rock festival had to be the finest thing in the universe.  Rampant sex and drugs with great music, all rolled up into one.  Heaven on earth. 

And so it was our fondest hope that a rock festival would soon be coming to our corner of the world, so that we might partake of the holy sacrament.  This was our shared vision – to attend a rock festival – and that and the rest of our daily rites tended to blot out everything else, except in those unseemly intervals when a burst of reality would intrude.

Reality.  Pictures on the five o'clock news of soldiers trooping through rice paddies, along with the inevitable body bags and body counts.  Blue-collar workers bashing the skulls of hippies in an anti-war demonstration.  A low number in the draft lottery, or worse, a letter from the draft board.  Someone's brother coming back from Viet Nam missing a leg or arm – or not coming back at all.  Transient images that flashed by occasionally. 

I was able to ignore most of it.  I was lucky because I had the luxury of apathy – I had the promise of a college deferment – so Viet Nam was definitely not on my travel itinerary.  Beyond that, I wasn't particularly interested in freeing the poor Vietnamese farmers from the oppressive yoke of communism – or for that matter, in demonstrating against the war. 

Apathy seemed affordable for an eighteen-year-old living with his parents in Federal Way in 1970.

 

 

I.  - Wednesday

August 26, 1970

 

1.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the Federal Way pool hall was almost empty.  It was oppressively hot outside – nearly eighty-five in the shade and muggy, so wet that my shirt stuck to me like glue.  Only people like me who actually enjoyed the game, shot pool in the daytime.  Everyone else was out catching rays as you're supposed to do when it's hot and sunny. 

Me, I was dedicated about pool.  I had been practicing my bank shots in preparation for what I hoped would be a career as a pool hustler, or for what would at least supplement my income during college.  I was in the process of lining up a long shot on the eight when Dave Heinlein snuck up behind me and jogged my stick, causing me to miss.

"Gordie, you asshole.  Whatch ya doing?"  He said in a low voice.

Dave was one of my best friends.  Fine brown hair that went down to his shoulders with prominent sideburns that ended below his jaw-line.  A bushy, drooping mustache reminiscent of a Mexican bandito.  He had cultivated the mustache while still in high school, which was not a small accomplishment and made him the envy of many of our peers.  A couple inches taller than me, about five foot ten, we still weighed about the same, around one fifty. 

Like me he was eighteen, and we had gone through all the usual high school trips together.  The cruising for babes and burgers along Pacific Highway South, the hanging out at the pool hall on Friday and Saturday nights looking for parties, or organizing keggers that would take place out in the woods by the power lines or at Lake Geneva.  And then there were the many bags of dope smoked while listening to music and looking for the perfect high, along with the numerous hits of mescaline and LSD taken with the same intention.  All the requisite rights of passage, at least for someone growing up in Federal Way in 1970.  And sometimes we had even gone to school. 

Dave stood now, head cocked to the side, twisting the mustache and smiling. 

Angry at missing my shot, I glared back at him and shook my head.

"What am I doing?"  I asked, voice dripping sarcasm.  "I'm blowing my shot, you sonofabitch.  You ain't got nothing better to do than go around screwing with people when they're making a shot?"

He smiled.  "No shit, Sherlock.  My life is a mission to make you miserable.  You know that."  He leaned casually against the table.  He was dressed in bell-bottom jeans, a tie-died T-shirt with a black leather vest, and black square-toed boots.  A misshapen peace sign dangled on a chain from around his neck.  The epitome of cool.

I leaned back against the table then looked at him.  "So what are you doing here?"  I asked.  "I thought you had to go to Seattle with your mom?"  I chalked my stick.

"Got out of it."  Smiling, he paused then said, "Gordo, you know what's up?"  Eyes wide, he canted his head to the right and a manic grin took form on his face. 

I had no idea what he was talking about.  Leaning back against the table, I tried to read something from his expression.  

"What?"  I asked, "You got that bag of Acapulco Gold you were talking about last week?

"No, better.  Think big." 

"Big?"  I paused for a moment thinking, then asked hopefully, "Derek and the Dominoes are gonna play the Coliseum in Seattle?"

"God, I wish,” said Dave, frowning.  He quickly shook his head and replied,  "Naw, not Clapton, but still cosmic stuff, Gordo."

"Cosmic?  What, they're gonna charge the National Guard with murder for offing the students at Kent State last May?"

"Nope.  Better than that, even."

"Okay, I got it.  President Nixon committed suicide."

"Uh uh.  Way better."

Tired of the stupid game, I moaned, "Aw, come on man, what's better than that?  Gimme a break, huh?"

He leaned towards me and drawing out each word, whispered theatrically, "A rock festival." 

My heart pounded.  "A rock festival?  Where?"

"Out in the sticks south of Tacoma, by a town named Yelm.  Festival's called Rio del Sol.  Gordo, a whole bunch of bands are gonna be there.  It's gonna go for eleven days!"

"No shit?"  I lifted my eyes to the heavens.  Bells rang, angels cried – then everything came abruptly to a halt.  I looked back at Dave.  "Hey, hold on a minute.  I remember hearing about that, but I thought they'd cancelled it 'cause it was illegal."

Dave shook his head.  "Naw, no way man.  I got good info.  This is one festival that's gonna happen, no matter what the pigs say.  Anyway, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.  I'm going.  You wanna go?"

Wild horses and J. Edgar Hoover couldn't have stopped me.  I looked at Dave and nodded.  "Damn straight.  When is it?" 

"Now.  It opens Friday, but I'm gonna go down there today and get an early start.  Go for it?"

"Fucking A, man.  Let's do it to it.  Right on!"

Hurriedly, I checked in my balls and paid the attendant, and then left in Dave's '55 Chevy.    We drove past my house and picked up my tent and some other camping gear.  From there we found the freeway, and headed south.

 

An hour later, we rounded a corner and in front of us, was a wide gateway with some longhaired hippies standing at the side.

"Look at those freaks standing there, this has gotta be it," said Dave.

"Fucking alright!"  Quite excited, I straightened up in the seat. 

The long metal gate was standing open, and we pulled up in front of it next to a tall hippie with a Jesus beard.  He was in his mid-twenties, and was wearing bib overalls, and had straight red hair that went down almost to his waist.  He came up to Dave's window and bent down so we were at the same eye level, close enough so I could read a large button pinned on one of his pockets, "Stamp Out Campus Violence – Euthanize Spiro Agnew."  The hippie had a soft southern accent.

"Howdy, folks.  Welcome to Rio del Sol.  Y'all gonna stay for the whole thing?" 

Nodding, Dave answered, "Yeah.  Thought we'd come down early so we could get a good spot."

The hippie nodded.  "That's cool, brothers," he said.  "Glad to have y'all.  All right then, it'll cost ya twenty-six bucks each for the full eleven days of the festival.  Y'all get a two-day free bonus for coming early." 

Dave and I looked at each other, eyes wide, both of us in a panic.  Fifty-two bucks would about wipe us out.  Money was one of the small details we hadn't really thought of when in our excitement, we hit the road.

My mind raced, desperately trying to come up with possible solutions.  I leaned over and anxiously whispered in Dave's ear, "Ask him if we can work some of it off or something."

Dave nodded quickly and looked back at the guy.  He stammered, "Uh, like we don't quite have that much on us right now, man.  Is there like any way we could do some work or something to get in?"  He smiled hopefully.

The hippie idly scratched his head and shrugged.  "Well, we could use some help parking cars.  Y'all both agree to do that?" 

We both nodded our heads vigorously in agreement.  Dave answered quickly, "Sure, man.  We'd love to help out."

"Alright.  I reckon that's okay.  Y'all go in and park, they'll show you where.  Unpack your stuff and get a campsite, then get on back to the security trailer at seven thirty and ask for Mitch.  Trailer's over yonder."  He nodded his head at a group of trailers to the right of the gate.  "I'll tell him y'all are coming.  Whata they call you two?"

"Dave Heinlein and Gordie Lawson."

He wrote the names down on a scrap of paper, and then looking up again, he nodded.  "Okay.  Go for it, brothers.  Enjoy!"  He stepped back and waved the car in back of us forward.

Dave smiled at the guy, and then let out the clutch.  Our car lurched slowly forward through the gateway. 

"We did it Gordo!  We're in!"

"Thank fucking Christ.  God, I woulda freaked if he hadn't let us in!"  I paused then said, "There's the security trailer he was talking about."  I pointed.

Just inside the gate and to the right was a cluster of three small travel trailers arranged in a semi-circle.  One had a cardboard sign with 'Security' scrawled on it with a marking pen.  In back of the trailers were cars and trucks, all parked in two neat rows, and then a few tents and a sea of scotch broom. 

Dave slowed to let a car pull out in front of him, and then pointed to a group of longhairs sitting on the left side of the road.  "Hey," he said.  "Look at those freaks and the signs they got.  'Orange Sunshine a dollar a hit.'  Good lids eight bucks.' On and on.   Shit, they're fucking advertising dope!"

I nodded, amazed at the signs.  "Crazy sonofabitches.  I guess there mustn't be any cops around."

"They better hope so, or they're gonna be dead meat!"

The pavement had ended at the gate, and we drove on a dusty dirt road bordered by the scotch broom on both sides. 

"Check out the road, Gordo.  There must be three inches of dust on it.  Look at the cloud going up in back of us.  Musta been a helluva lot of traffic, here, huh?"

"No shit."  We had come to a three-way intersection, and another longhair was waving at us.  I looked over at Dave.  "I think he wants us to go through that gate to the left."

"Are you sure, man?  I think he's waving 'cause he thinks I'm a rock star.  Shall I stop so he can get my autograph?"

"Dream on, asshole.  Just turn."

Grinning, he turned left, and we drove down a short road and into what had recently been a broad expanse of pasture.  Several long lines of cars and trucks were parked there now, and Dave parked our car at the end of the first row.  We got out.

I stood up slowly, stretching from our long drive, tired but very alert, and very conscious of our surroundings.  It had cooled down somewhat and was quite pleasant outside, maybe seventy-five degrees with a slight breeze.  Someone had a radio cranked up, and the fragrant smell of freshly mown hay and the sounds of Janis Joplin singing Summertime drifted over the languid August air. 

I looked over our surroundings.  The parking lot was on a slight incline, running down to a small valley with a stand of trees across the bottom and at the sides.  Above the trees on the other side of the valley and to the left, rose the imposing majesty of Mt. Rainier, sparse fields of snow clinging to the top looking like a bad frosting job on a cake.  Across the other side of the entry road was another spacious pasture, which was being used as a parking lot, then more trees far away, off in the distance at the top of the hill. 

Back in front of us on the road, a convoy of three U-Haul trucks threw up a billowing trail of dust as they moved in towards the festival.  Dave stood leaning against the car, taking it all in.  He looked over at me.

"So what you think, Gordo?"

"Man, I think I'm in love,” I said softly.  This is what I've been waiting for all my life.  Can you feel the vibes?"

"Damn straight.  You know what it's like?"

"Uh uh.  What?"  I looked at him.

He gazed off in to space, shaking his head.  "It's like those parties we did at Lake Geneva, you know, with the Ballew's and all them.  Remember?  We'd spend days setting it up, just so everything would be perfect.  You go around school Friday afternoon, smoking out by the paper shack, and the party is like the only thing everyone is talking about.  That night, when everybody finally gets to the lake, you're so hyped up that you feel like you're gonna bust, what with all the fucking energy.  This is like that, only a helluva lot heavier."

I nodded my head.  "Yeah, I can dig it.  It's kinda like the biggest kegger ever, where they got all this fantastic live music and dope and shit."  A tingling sensation in my spine, I absently followed the progress of an old converted school bus painted in wild psychedelic designs, as it passed nearby on the road.  Looking back at Dave, I went on a lower voice,  "You know, I think I'm gonna really dig this.  I got these vibes, I think this is gonna be the best fucking party ever.  Better than Woodstock, maybe.  One heavy motherfucker!"

He smiled.  "No shit?  Maybe even a father-raper, huh?"

I nodded, grinning.  "No shit.  Shall we check it out?"

"Yeah.  Let's scout out the lay of the land first, then come back for our shit, later."

"Cool."

We hurriedly locked the car then set off, walking in silence, urgently drinking in all that was around us, looking for signs of what was to come. 

Not too far beyond the gate that led out of the parking lot, the road split off in two directions just before the crest of the hill.  To the right, a bunch of workers were unloading Sani-Cans off a flatbed truck, arranging them in a double line of ten each, just off the side of the road. To the left at the other side of the intersection, a longhaired man running a backhoe was digging a ditch.

I looked anxiously at Dave.  "The right side has had more traffic,” I said.

He nodded.  "Yeah, let's try it." 

 

 

2.

At the top of the hill, a tree-rimmed valley was spread out below us.  It was a gigantic natural amphitheatre, the grassy hill curving around like a clamshell, making a bowl which sloped gently down to a flat area at the bottom, about a quarter mile away.  The ridge we were on swept around to the right for another quarter mile at the top of the bowl, with trees standing in back like sentinels.  My head spun – the place could hold thousands of people.  Presently, only a few tents marred the otherwise pristine surface as evidence of human habitation. 

Dave interrupted my dreaming.  "Gordo, look down at the bottom there.  Look." 

I turned my gaze.  Workers were building a huge stage at the bottom of the amphitheatre.  I'd seen pictures of Woodstock, and this looked similar.  Quite similar. 

"Man, you could play football on that,” said Dave, staring at the stage.  "It's fucking humongous!" 

"No shit.  And check out all the speakers for the PA system.  Jesus!"  At either side, giant columns fifty or sixty feet high made of painter's scaffolding held probably a hundred large black speaker boxes.

Dave laughed.  "For real.  And look at all the people crawling around.  The ones up on the top with that sheet look like fucking monkeys."

High up in the scaffolding, workers were stringing up a big white tarp between two smaller columns towards the back of the stage, apparently a projection screen for the light show.  Down below, others laid down the plywood floor. 

Fifty feet in front of the stage was a smaller tower set right in the middle, dividing the stage in two, with a walkway from it to the stage.  As Dave had said, people poured all over the stage and the surrounding area, and the sounds of saws and hammering filled the immense amphitheatre. 

"Gordo, look at all those semis and U-Hauls.  You suppose there's some bands here already?"  He pointed to a group of semi trucks and U-Haul's parked just outside the tree line.  Directly behind the stage were several large army tents and a group of travel trailers.

"I dunno, I s’pose it could be.  What about the tents just behind the stage?"

"That must be where the musicians will stay.  Hey, check out the choppers."

To the right of the stage and back sat two helicopters, one with rotor blades slowly turning, both looking like giant bugs squatting on large white crosses laid out in the dry, brown grass.  There was a loud rumbling crash, and I jumped. 

Thirty feet to the right from where we stood was an old barn and a battered looking windmill, with a bunch of people standing in a knot passing reefers just outside the barn.  A large cloud of dust billowed out from where a section of wall had fallen from the barn. 

I called out to a hippie wearing a brightly colored serape and a straw hat, standing on the fringe of the crowd.  "Hey! What's going on?"

He smiled, and shouted back, "We're tearing this down so we can use the lumber for the shops down there."  He pointed down to the left of the stage.

I looked back into the bowl again, and saw they were building what looked like a long line of stalls.  Dave just stood shaking his head.

"Far fucking out, man!  This is just too much,” he exclaimed.  "A humongous stage, a huge sound system, beaucoup cheap dope, the helicopters, and room for thousands and thousands of fucking people.  Everything they need.  Really.  And we're here.  We actually made it."  Still gazing at the stage, he paused for a moment, and then shaking his head, he went on.  "Man, this is so fucking A groovy I just can't believe it.  A goddamn rock festival and we're in on it!  C'mon, Gordo!  Let's boogie on down.  I wanna go see the stage."

Enraptured, I managed an assenting grunt, then after clearing my throat, said softly, "Yeah, the stage." 

We walked down the grassy hill towards the stage, and then on Dave's suggestion, made a slight detour towards the place they were building the stalls.  It was a line of shops in the shape of an oblique 'L', which was several hundred feet long.  A few shops were already finished. 

"Look at the signs,” I said as we walked along the row of shops.  "It's like the dealers at the gate, everyone's advertising dope here.  They gotta be nuts.  Advertising?"

Dave nodded.  "Yeah, alright!  Hey, look at that one."  He pointed at one of the booths, nearly complete.  "Rio Del Sol Drugs, and they got Purple Owsley acid for a buck a hit.  That's my kinda drug store." 

"Don't ya think it's a little too up-front advertising dope like that though?"

He shrugged.  "This ain't fucking straight-city anymore. It's like Woodstock, man.  They didn't allow any pigs in there and there ain't gonna be any here.  The signs show that.  Don't have to be paranoid like usual when it's all just brothers."  He paused, while eyeing a passing woman dressed in Levis and a tight body shirt with a plunging neckline.  Looking back at me, he shook his head and went on, "What the fuck.  You gotta get with it, Gordo.  I mean man, like this is a rock festival."  He cut in front of me and started walking off in the direction of the stage.

A rock festival.  Including the carpenters working on the shops, it seemed like every one of the people we had encountered since we arrived had been a hippie.  Many of the people we passed were openly smoking weed, and the fragrance often pervaded the air, interspersed with the heavy smells of patchouli oil and incense.  Dope was even advertised. 

As profoundly unreal as it was, the atmosphere seemed so comfortable, and the usual all-pervasive paranoia seemed to have finally been banished.  What the hell, I thought.  I decided to take Dave's advice.  To hell with paranoia.  But I knew I was dreaming and in heaven.

We stopped just short of the stage, watching the work progress.  In front of us, men were cutting sheets of plywood, and placing them on the front of the stage to hide the scaffolding. 

One longhair sat down on a stack of lumber next to us, and after wiping the sheen of perspiration off his forehead with a large red bandana, he pulled a plastic baggie and some Zig Zags from his hip pocket.   He began rolling a joint, working awkwardly, as if he had hurt one of his hands earlier.   He was in his mid-twenties, a lean and lanky build, with long, kinky brown hair tied back in a pony tail that reached the middle of his back, nearly touching the carpenter's tool belt riding at his waist.  A full beard covered most of his tanned, narrow face, and bushy eyebrows peeked over the rims of his wire frame glasses, which sat on a red and peeling, sunburned nose.  He was dressed in blue jeans and a green T-shirt, the front of the shirt shiny with sweat.  He finished rolling the joint and looked at us, smiling.

"Hey!  You guys wanna toke up?"  He asked good-naturedly.  He held the joint out towards us. 

"Sure,” I said.  We sat down on the lumber next to him.  He lit the joint and passed it to Dave.  After holding his breath for a ten count, he let it out slowly, the cloud of marijuana smoke being lofted into the air by the breeze.  He held out his hand and said, "My name's Bruce Stuckey.  Welcome to Rio del Sol.  You brothers musta just got here, huh?"

We shook hands.  "Thanks.  I'm Gordon Lawson.  This is Dave Heinlein.  Yeah, we just got in."  I took the joint from Dave and he and Stuckey shook hands.  The weed tasted like the Mexican we normally smoked.

"Man, this is far fucking out,” said Dave, letting out his hit.  "Say, how long till you guys finish the stage?  There gonna be any music tonight?"

Stuckey laughed, his green eyes shining in the light of the evening sun.  "Naw, there's not gonna be any music tonight.  If we're lucky, we'll have the thing done tomorrow so they can do some sound checks.  Right now, we're putting the facing on the stage.  Another crew is almost finished with the sub floor.  When they get done, they've gotta lay the final layer of plywood decking."

"That's gonna take till tomorrow?"  I asked.

"Probably.  Way it looks, we may havta knock off when it gets dark.  If they don't have the big generator up, there won't be any work lights.  Till they get the big one going, all we got are the small generators we run the saws off of - won't handle power tools and lights, both."  He paused for a moment then asked, "You guys gonna work here?"

"Yeah,” I said.  "We didn't have the bucks for the tickets so they're gonna have us do parking to pay our way in.  Hey, you get paid for doing this stuff?"

He laughed again.  "Naw.  Everyone here are volunteers.  Doing it for the karma."

"Huh."  I paused then pointing, asked, "Hey, what are the helicopters for?"  I was getting a pleasant buzz from the joint.

"They're for the bands," answered Stuckey, smiling.  "So they don't have to come in by road and get stuck in traffic.  They've rented three of them for the whole length of the festival."

"Huh," said Dave, who then took a hit off the joint and passed it to me. Letting out a cloud of smoke, he went on, "Have you heard what bands are going to show up?"

He looked into space for a moment, and then answered, "Let me see, I think the Grateful Dead are still on, The Jefferson Airplane, Crosby Stills Nash and Young, It's a Beautiful Day, Ten Years After, Boz Scaggs, John Mayall and Quicksilver.  Steve Miller and Humble Pie had to cancel, they said.  That's all of the biggies I can think of right now.  But there are a whole shitload of others, I'm sure."

"Have you heard if Clapton is gonna play here?"  I asked expectantly.

He smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.  "Ah yeah, Clapton is God!  But, no.  No, I haven't heard anything about him being here."

Undaunted by the setback, I charged ahead.  "How about Lennon?"

Stuckey shrugged.  "I heard one guy who said John and Yoko were supposed to be coming here.  Just to party, not play.  But the guy was really tripped out on STP and I dunno if it was for real.  I kinda think not."

"Have you heard how many people are supposed to be coming?"  Asked Dave, as he fitted the remains of the joint onto a roach clip.

"I've heard them say anywhere from forty thousand to a quarter million."

"Sonofabitch!  That's a whole lot of people!  But how are they gonna be able to pull it off if the pigs bust the place?"  Dave asked.   "I mean, like I heard someone say the festival is illegal."

Stuckey nodded.  "Yeah, but they've got a new angle.  Have you seen the tickets?"  He pulled one from his pocket and held it up so we could see.  "See, it's not a 'ticket'.  It says 'Limited Partnership Agreement' on it.  When you buy one of these, you become a limited partner, a part owner of Rio del Sol, Inc.  The cops can't regulate what a man does on his own property.  This isn't a rock festival, it's a stockholders meeting!"  We all laughed.

Stuckey looked at his watch and then stood up, smiling.  "Breaks over, I guess.  I oughta get back to work."

Dave held out the roach to him.  "Hey, you want the rest of this?"

He shook his head.  "Naw, you guys keep it.  I got plenty.  You guys take care, now."  He tipped an imaginary hat, and strode back over to the work party.

Basking in the warm, familiar glow of the marijuana, I looked at Dave.  "Well, so what do you wanna do?"  I asked.  "It's getting late.  You suppose what we should set up the tent?"

"I dunno.  Whadaya think?" asked Dave, obviously stoned.

"I think it might be a good idea."

"Far out, man.  Like where?"

"Well, I don't wanna be real close to the stage.  If there are gonna be zillions of people coming, we'd get trampled down here.  How about back on the hill?"

We turned around and looked.  The level area in front of the stage continued for a couple hundred feet and then sloped up the gentle hill.  About halfway up and slightly off to the left was a large oak tree, the only tree on the whole hill.

"It looks like it's almost level by that tree,” I said.  "Let's check it out."

"Cool."

Stoned, we walked through the freshly cut grass towards the tree. 

 

 

3.

An hour later we had the tent, a large six-person job my dad had bought the last summer, set up just to the right of the tree.  It was situated next to the remnants of an old fence devoid of its wire, the split-cedar posts running in a long line around the width of the bowl.  The ground was almost level, with no rocks and it was perfect.  We were approximately two hundred yards away from and a hundred feet above the stage.  From our campsite, we could see nearly all of the immense amphitheatre laid out below.

After standing back and admiring our work, Dave hung a sign he had made above the tent door, which read, Tortilla Flat.  He said the literary allusion would help us pick up ladies.  Myself, I wasn't so sure. 

Most of the women we had seen thus far were the older, earth mother types, in long flowing dresses that swept the ground when they walked.  The oldest women I had ever been with was nineteen, and I had no confidence that I could attract these sophisticated-looking hippie women.  Most of them seemed like they were already attached, anyway.  

After a dinner of some baloney sandwiches Dave had packed, we laid out foam pads and then our sleeping bags.  By the time we finished, it was nearly seven thirty.  I looked over at Dave.

"I think we should be getting down to the main gate,” I said.  "It's almost time."

"Huh?"

"Time we went to the main gate to go to work."

"Like fuck.  It's time to party, dipshit.  You wanna get normal?"  He was sitting on his sleeping bag, rolling a joint.

"Yeah, I could smoke a roofer, but hey – you're not gonna work?"

"You gotta be kidding, man.  I came here to get loose.  You're really gonna work?"  I silently stared at him, and he shook his head. "Shit, how are they gonna find us, Gordo?"  He licked the joint then lit it, taking in a big hit.

"We told them we would, man.  What, you're gonna welch out?"  I accepted the joint from him and filled my lungs with the pungent smoke. 

Dave made choking noises then let out his hit in a fit of coughing.  He looked up at me and said, "I came here to party and listen to some dynamite tunes, not park fucking cars."

"Hmm.  Well, I want to help.  You heard the guy, everyone here's a volunteer.  What would happen if everyone just partied?  No festival, that's what."  I took another hit off the joint.  While holding my breath, I whispered, "Anyway, who says you can't do both?"

"You do what you want, Gordo, but I'm going down to the stage.  I gotta check out the ladies."

I shrugged.  "Whatever.  Here."  I handed back the joint and got up.  "I'm gonna go to the gate now.  Catch you later, I guess."

He saluted me as I left.

 

It took about fifteen minutes to walk to the gate.  The smoke from the many cook fires dotting the bowl made twisting orange-red trails in the light of the sun beginning to set in the west.  More tents were up now, at least twice as many as when we had arrived.  The line of shops running off to the left of the stage was almost finished, and there was what looked like a large, wood frame building rising in back and to the left of the stage, just in front of the tree line.

At the main road, I paused to let an old bus pass.  It was painted in wild colors with psychedelic designs and graffiti all over.  According to a sign on the side, it was the Hog Farm bus.  I'd heard of the Hog Farm.  They were a commune from down in California, and they'd been at Woodstock, providing free food for many of the people there.  The driver waved as they passed and the passengers were hanging out of the open windows, taking in the sights of the festival grounds.

The security trailer door was open when I arrived, covered head to toe with dust from the road.  I knocked, and a man looked around the edge of the doorway.

"Who you looking for?"  Asked the man, in a pleasant-sounding baritone voice.  He was about thirty, with a bushy beard that almost completely covered his face.  His blue eyes were alert, seeming to peer into me, and at the corners were lines that I thought must have been caused by squinting, as if he was a little nearsighted.  He had wavy, light brown hair that covered his ears and hung to just past his collar, and which matched the color of his beard.  He was wearing a dark blue work shirt open at the neck, a tuft of chest hair exposed.  He too was covered by the road dust, which imparted a rather gray pallor.

"I'm looking for Mitch.  Is he here?"

"You found him.  Mitch Cameron."  He got up and offered me his hand.  He was big, like a mountain man, well over six feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds.  His blue jeans were stained with grease on the front.  He looked weary. 

"So what can I do for you?"  He asked.

"Uh, I volunteered to work parking to pay my way in.  My name's Gordon Lawson."

He stepped back and indicated a seat at the table, then sat on the opposite side, and pulled a clipboard from a stack of papers, leafing through the sheets. 

I walked in, sat and looked around. 

The trailer was small, maybe eight feet by fifteen.  The booth where we sat filled one end, then there were some cupboards and a small stove and sink, then more closets and in back, a double bed with an ice chest sitting on it.  In the middle of the table was a saucer with a candle standing in it, multi-colored trails of wax at its base.  Papers were everywhere.  On the floor sat a cardboard box filled with walkie-talkies.  I looked back at Mitch, who was still looking at the papers on the clipboard.

"Let me see ... yeah, I've got you here."  He made a check mark next to the name with a pen, and then looked up at me. "Okay.  Have you got any experience in crowd control or security?" 

I shook my head no. 

He continued,  "Well, parking is real simple.  What we need are people to direct cars coming in to the proper places so we make the best use of the space we have.  We've got room for about five thousand cars here, inside.  We're talking with the farmer that owns the land next to us about parking cars there.  That'd give us space for several thousand more.  But even if we get that, we've still gotta pack 'em in as tight as can be.  There could be thirty thousand people here in two days.  You know how many cars that is?"  He smiled.

"A whole bunch.  Hey, I've heard there were gonna be forty or fifty thousand people, or maybe even a whole lot more."

He shrugged.  "Everybody's got a different estimate.  We've sold about ten thousand advance tickets.  How many we're gonna get after that is anybody’s' guess.  We won't really know for sure until after it happens.  But any way it goes, it's still a whole shitload."

"This is true.  You're one of the promoters?"

"I'm on the festival committee.  I'm a Green Panther.  I'm up here from LA to help out."

"That's like a Black Panther, only green?"

"No, not quite."  He paused then asked, "So when can you start working?"

"Any time – I don't have anything planned."

"Great.  You can start now, then."  He paused then added, "I think you'll like it.  I mean there are some benefits for staff – the Hog Farm will be providing free meals for us, and we have our own dope stash.  It's not such a bad deal, really."

He turned and reached over to a cupboard and pulled out a small box.  From the box, he took a white cloth armband with the letters 'RS' silk-screened on it in blue.  He handed it to me.

"Here, this is your staff pass.  Blue are for main gate security and traffic control.  Green is for ticket taking, red is for backstage.  Gold armbands have clearance for anywhere in the festival."

I put it on my arm and as I was admiring it, a girl with curly brown hair leaned in the door. 

"Mitch?"  The voice was a sexy contralto. 

He looked at her and smiled.  "Yeah, what's up?"

Beautiful brown eyes.  "Marty and I are getting ready to leave and she asked me to find out if you're coming back with us tonight."  Her eyes briefly locked on mine and there was a hint of a smile.  I felt myself beginning to blush.

Mitch shook his head.  "Nope.  This is home from here on out.  When exactly are you guys coming back?"

The girl smiled at him.  "Tomorrow morning, by about eleven."  She was really pretty.  I sat up straighter, and brushed my fingers over my new armband.

Mitch nodded.  "Okay.  That works for me.  You two be good and have a safe drive back to Tacoma."

She nodded.  "We will.  See you tomorrow."  She disappeared.

Mitch turned back to me, then pulled a manila envelope out of a stack of papers.  He pushed it across the table to me. 

"Okay.  First, I want you to take this to Dr. Johnson at the OD Clinic.  Then on the way back, check with the guy in the south lot, Jim Vale, and see if he needs any help.  If he does, stay there.  If he doesn't, come back here and I'll find something else for you to do.  Do you know where the OD Clinic is?" 

I shook my head no.

He went on,  "Okay.  It's in the woods in back and to the left of the stage.  Big army tent with a white cross on the roof.  Have any trouble finding it, just ask around.  Okay?"

"Cool.  Catch you later."

"See you, bro.  And thanks."

I got up and left.

 

Traffic on the road was still heavy.  Every few minutes, I would have to step aside and let a car or truck go by, and would be left gasping for breath in the thick dust cloud that followed.

At the stage, I found they had erected a four-foot high plywood barrier at the sides and around the area in back.   The enclosed area was about three hundred feet across.  A lone hippie dressed in a pair of tattered brown cords and a short-sleeved army shirt with sergeants' stripes was standing at a gate in the back. A peace sign was embroidered in red above the left pocket of the shirt.  I approached and waved.

"Hi,” I said.  "How's it going down here?"

At first he looked like he was going to brush me off, then his eyes found my staff armband.  His face softened, and he smiled.

"Howdy.  Pretty good, I guess.  You're from the main gate?"

"Yeah.  I got a package to deliver to the OD Clinic."

"Groovy.  Hey, you guys got any speed up there at the gate?  We could really use some down here, don't ya know."  He was about twenty-one, skinny and had freckles all over his face, and on his arms.  He went on, "We all been working like days, man, and we gotta boogie like hell if we're gonna finish in time.  Havta wire-up to do it.  I wonder if they got any whites at the clinic?  They got some hip doctors and shit there, I heard."

"I'm not sure.  I can check, though.  Hey, they get the electricity going yet?"  I nodded towards the stage.

"Naw, they're still fucking around up there.  Supposed to be done tomorrow, don't ya know.  They're having these problems with the big generator thing.  I been saying a mantra for it."  He pointed at the generator.

Fifty feet inside the fence was a flatbed truck with a huge diesel engine on the back.  It looked like an engine I had seen one time when I took a tour of a submarine.  It was painted gray, and was about six feet high, and ten feet long.  At the end was a large panel with thick wires coming out, leading off towards the stage.  Two straight-looking men were standing on the truck bed next to it, talking.

"What's the problem with the generator?"  I asked.

"I dunno.  Something about the current not being steady, don't ya know.  They plugged some lights into it or something, and they blew 'em out right away."  He paused for a moment, and then said, "Hey, you heard about the electric cool-aid they got over at the Seattle Liberation Front bus?"

"Uh uh.  That's the old school bus over the other side of the stage, on the left?"

"Naw.  That's the Hog Farm, there."  He paused to scratch him crotch and went on, "The SLF bus is over the other side of the helicopters near the trees.  They got this big tub of grape cool-aid, and I heard they put like a hundred hits of orange sunshine in it.  Giving glasses of it away to anyone who wants i