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ONE CAN NOT LIVE ON PEANUT BUTTER AND WINE ALONE: ADVENTURES AT A CANCELED ROCK FESTIVAL copyright 1996-2006 Robb Strycharz part 4 SUNDAY, JULY 5, 1970 continued After some consternation and discussion, we adopted Nelson's proposed route, which in retrospect was not that direct a route after all. We would take the mountainous RT-23 west from Westfield into NY. There we would catch the legendary Taconic Parkway. Somewhere we would find US-44 and follow it to Poughkeepsie where we would cross the mighty Hudson. Eventually, depending on Devil Bus... for no other vehicle had the room for at least 6 people and gear... we'd find RT-209 then 52. By then we'd certainly be deep in the mysterious Catskill Mountains. In my imagination the Catskills were still a weird, alien domain... once inhabited by strange foreigners from the Old Country who thought it not in the least bit strange to name their towns Ganahgote, and their rivers Neversink. This was, after all, Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle territory... a place where things were never what they seemed on the surface, and what lay below was most certainly sinister. Who really knew what mysterious, ancient, quasi-human species of dwarves and gnomes still roamed those haunted mountains! Another appeal of the Catskills rest in an embarrassing Revolutionary fantasy that Greg and I indulged back the year before when we were in our Partisan Ranger Mountain Force dementia. The proposed PRMF was right out of Revolution For Fun and Profit. Chapter One: all aspiring revolutionaries need mountains. Where else could the Ches of the world skulk back to after attacks on the yellow-dog lackeys of the imperialist Power Structure? For Greg and I, the Catskills fit the bill... and they had the added advantage of being the nearest respectable mountain range around. We would roam the lonely summits and deep, dark mysterious valleys, confident in virtual invisibility our trusty army jackets. We'd sleep in our trusty army blankets. We would be armed only with our wits, Revolutionary zeal, telescopes, slingshots, and homemade Thermite and phosphorous bombs. True my high school chemistry class didn’t actually touch on bomb-making, but I was sure I could eventually figure out the chemical formulae and electron valances…. and if nothing else… Thermite was a lot of fun. As we envisioned it, we would descend from our lofty heights upon unsuspecting sleepy little towns, and build a crack guerrilla force from the grateful convicts and local drunks we’d liberate from these small-town jails. After indoctrinating them in the need to rid mindless conformity from the world, they’d willingly join us in our Holy Cause. Hell, in a year or two we'd be folk heroes! Fortunately, we had outgrown those fantasies. Now and in this summer after high school we had our feet firmly set in the reality of the Real World. Gonkers was a case in point. Gone was the head-in-the-sand, pie-in-the-sky, intellectual immaturity that marked our earlier schemes. Gonkers would test our ability to accurately appraise any real-world situation and respond with a realistic plan of action. We were so confident, we didn't need a Plan B. The rough outlines of The Plan were as follows. We would depart on the afternoon of Friday the 10th. We would pull into Mountaindale sometime while it was still light, scout the place out, and develop a plan of attack to crash the proverbial gate. Why not just pay for a ticket? Ya right! Sure, there was the grand Woodstock gate crashing tradition to uphold... but it just appealed to us because we were always trying to beat the system, any system. Anything cheap was good. But the best things in life were always Free. As for the details of the Plan they were so well thought out as to be foolproof. After enduring a long trip in a cranky VW bus during which we no doubt would partake in a sedating substance or two, we would none the less arrive in area bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with a few hours left before the sun went down. We assumed that once in the area we would find an abundance of signs pointing the way. Near the festival site there would be no crowds, no confusion, no breakdown of traffic control, and certainly no problem finding a good parking spot... preferably in the shade, thank you. In those last few hours of daylight we would find the actual festival site and scout it out. We would then identify the abundant promising weaknesses in the security; probably an unguarded approach through a conveniently located swamp... that despite being summer would be magically free of marauding mosquitoes. Then we would just wait until everyone was asleep… perhaps about 1:00 am. If there was a token fence barring our way, no problem! We brought along the vandal's tool of choice, our trusty wire cutters. Wally used to supply the Circus with all the wire cutters we needed through a five-fingered discount at work at a local paint store. He dubbed it the Lysek Super Sale. If these wire cutters could make quick work of thick wooden pencils we chopped up back in study hall, surely they'd manage to slice through flimsy barbed wire or a chain link fence. Once inside the actual Festival site we would melt into the disheveled, longhaired crowd where we could sleep the sleep of the dead and wait for the music to begin at noon on Saturday. Damn, were we on top of the situation or what! We had every eventuality covered. Every proverbial “i” was dotted. Even the legendary D-Day planners could do no better. But, first the fireworks.... We arrived at Szot Park at dusk. The place was already seething with the hordes of early comers staking out the best vantage points. The influx had displaced the usual Park People... the resident Freaks, and needless to say, there was none of the usual drug business going on at the infamous Acid Bench. As for us, we felt that the best vantage point was right up against the Police line and away from the old folks with their folding lawn chairs, all to many of whom still talked in half-broken English betraying their Polish roots. We may have been in a crowd, hardly our natural element, but at least with young folks. From there we not only had an unobstructed view of the sky but of the firework preparations down by the pond. While the fire department worked on setting up the pyrotechnics, the police wielding flashlights attempted to chase down would-be criminals who sought even better viewing spots down range on the other side of the pond. Some responded to the shouts of the cops and obediently returned to the crowd, others just disappeared into the dark overgrowth to bide their time until the show started. In our immediate vicinity was a bunch of rowdy hooligans. As the cops walked the line, admonishing transgressors who dared cross, an occasional live firecracker was tossed out of the crowd at one of Chicopee's Finest. BAAANG! Instantly the cop turned, as if hoping to catch the perp‘s hand still in mid-throw. "OK. Who did that? Who the hell threw that?" bellowed the cop. He shined his flashlight into the crowd seeking likely suspects. Predictably there was no answer to the question but moments later there was a reply: BAAANG! BAAANG! Went two more. The cop grabbed for a young boy about 10. "So, you're the one, heh heh." Attentive to the drama the local crowd broke out into a chorus of Booo's and "hey, just leave the kid alone." From another quarter came "Kill the Pigs" and the more familiar "Oink, oink." Having no evidence and facing a hostile crowd, the cop let the boy go. By 9:30 it was finally dark. Hurried preparations continued by the pond. Red roadside emergency flares were now lit... presumably more suitable for the job than safety matches. Suddenly, there was an explosion and a whooshing sound sped skyward... but not skyward enough. In our altered state the premature explosion of a gigantic white sunburst filled our field of vision, and the shock wave from the thunderous detonation drove us deep into the ground. We were on the USS Enterprise going into warp drive… only now in 3-D. WOW!. What an attention getter! Shifting into slow motion, the brilliant sparks faded into glowing ember retaining the outline, of the airburst. These sparks gently floated across the night sky before disappearing from view. As the aerial display continued and the crowd cheered we could not but notice that we were being pelted by debris from the sky. Some was still glowing red... obviously from the fireworks. In a bit of Kent State gallows humor Davy shouted, "They're shooting into the crowd." "Nah, they're just shooting down birds," Greg answered, "Can't be. It's nighttime. The birds aren't out." I offered, being the scientific type. "Well, maybe they're shooting down bats then." Said Bill. We were instantly blown away by the truth when we heard it. Bats indeed were being slaughtered in the dark skies overhead. Against the fiery explosions and the flaming shrapnel they stood no chance. Only daylight would revel the carnage.
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