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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 9 FRIDAY July 10, 1970 continued GO WEST YOUNG MEN! As we embarked we had no idea that the Festival's promoters had already lost their appeal in the NY State Supreme Court. I don't know what we would have done if we had known. Maybe, in an act of defiance and solidarity, we would have gone anyway but I doubt it. We would have spent a boring weekend in Chicopee. Given that probably, it’s best we didn't know. As for life on the frontlines, AP reported: "One health department official expressed concern that prospective festival-goers were moving into the Mountaindale area despite the ruling barring the festival." Well, six more were also just leaving home, heading west, into the unknown... ready to add fuel to the flames. Horace Greely would have been proud. RT-23 begins with a steep mile long climb out of Russell to Blandford. It was not a mountain the Devil wanted to climb without protest. As for the road itself, despite its designation, it was anything but a “highway”. RT-23 was unlike its bigger brothers, such as US-20 and RT-2, which followed the railroads which themselves followed the river valleys deep into the Berkshires. These railroads always sought the most gradual grade before attempting to cross a mountain range. But, RT-23 had a different purpose: to connect some hill towns and thus it ran right over the range. It was a collection of winding, mountainous, back roads that were strung together and assigned a route number. Fortunately, it just happened to lead to NY State. Because it was a highway in the middle of nowhere, it was also the perfect road to try the new dope. For the first time we in the back of the Bus pulled back the curtains and were amazed that we actually had a view. Typically, we always traveled with the curtains shut and had become accustomed to the only looking out the front windshield. Who knew Devil Bus was quite the touring vehicle. We were unprepared for what happened next. No we didn't get pulled over by a cop investigating suspicious billows of smoke pouring out our windows. We not only got stoned, the dope gave us all a collective case of the dreaded Munchies. We began a mad scramble to find food, any food that was stashed away in packs and pillowcases throughout the Bus. We started innocently enough with Greg's box of Cheezetts. In mere minutes they had been devoured. Then we started on his marshmelloooos. Soon they too had been inhaled. But that was just the start. Someone had peanut butter, but we didn't have a knife or spoon handy. Emily Post would have been appalled but it's not that her book on Etiquette ever graced the world with any guidance on this subject. So we began to desperately dig the stuff out of the jar with our fingers. Once we had a mouthful of the tasty goo, we'd figure out later how to swallow it. The important thing was to be eating, tasting, something, ANYTHING, NOW! After a fifteen-minute feeding frenzy we were stuffed... and the pantry was bare. Some time later we rolled through Great Barrington and on into NY State. Maybe if we hadn't been so stoned we would have pulled up to the first packie we saw and brought some wine. However, we resisted the temptation. We didn't want to press our luck. It's not that we were afraid of not getting served. We were more concerned about drawing attention to ourselves. The Easy Rider complex was hard to shake. What if we were busted for dope and never heard from again? At times like these I regretted not including more information on the note I left for my parents. Like Davy's it basically said, "Went to NY". Maybe it was better to pass unnoticed through such small towns like Hillsdale, Craryville, and Napanoch, than to assume the good will and tolerance of their citizens. THE WORLD'S WEIRDIST ROAD? The Taconic Parkway used to get my nomination as the world's weirdest road. For the longest time I thought it was built back in the 30s, an American autobahn, maybe touted as the eight wonder of the road-building world. Though it was actually built in the ‘50s, it certainly was unlike any of the newer-generation of divided superhighways that came with the federal Interstate Highway program. For one thing there were few actual entrance/exit ramps. More often than not there were just side roads with stop signs. Some roads just crossed the medium strip and then continued on its way on the far side of the parkway. The Taconic also had no formal breakdown lane, and thus seemed a bit claustrophobic. There was but a low curb that could easily be crossed to a wide grassy strip. What was also weird about the Taconic was the location of the gas stations in the center medium strip. That meant drivers had to exit from and merge back onto the highway's fast lane. That was certainly unheard of in our neck of the woods. We guessed that the road had to have been built back when speed limits were 45-50 mph maximum. The Devil Bus would have been at home in that era for that was usually the best the Bus could do... going downhill with a tailwind. Uphill the best the poor beast could manage was a pathetic 30-35 mph. Either way; we were passed by every car on the road. Maybe the clue was in its name. What the hell was a "parkway" anyway? Were they designed to provide drivers an alternative, civilized, maybe even recreational, driving experience? Seemed so. Even trucks were banned! So we theorized. "Maybe the whole road is a park, we could just pull off anywhere,” Bill suggested. "And what? We just pull out a blanket and have a picnic?", quipped Davey. "Next he’ll be saying we should camp the night here.“ Tom joined in. “No, but a nap sounds nice”. I added. “Can’t”, said Nelson. “We have miles to go before we sleep”. “Nice line. Sounds familiar”, said Greg. :”You make that up?” It must have been about 7:30 when we pulled into a roadside rest area. Soon it would be dark. Some of us needed to stretch our legs and take care of other pressing matters. Bordering the rest area was a long stone wall. Some of us sat down and took in the scenery and the bugs. It was a land of rolling fields and huge farms with large barns. Off in the distance, abnormally large billboards. Maybe I had dreamt it but didn’t NY have a law that billboards could be no closer than 900 to any highway? If so, it was probably leftover from Lady Bird Johnson's "Beautify America" campaign. However the ad people had adapted. They compensated with obnoxiously over-sized signs. It was probably at this time that Nelson took the helm. While in Poughkeepsie, the last big town before we entered boondock country, we began a hunt for real food. We had hoped to find a Burger Chef but rather than go on a wild goose hunt, we settled for a Dairy Queen Brazier. In our neck of the woods Dairy Queen only sold soft-serve. Here we could actually get burgers and hot dogs… like I said, real food. Actually, not everybody ate. If I couldn't get a decent burger for 59 cents the place had to be a rip-off. Knowing that we were hours behind schedule we opted to forgo the dining room and eat on the fly. It was near dark as we crossed the old, two-lane, Mid-Hudson suspension bridge. It took a mighty bridge to span the mighty Hudson and at 3000’ long, it qualified. It had that classic WPA-project look but it actually opened in 1930. And to think we used to joke about the RT-9 Coolidge Bridge in Hadley as big. We even jokingly called the Connecticut River the Hudson. We lived such sheltered lives. What did we know? The Hudson was not just a very wide river, it was open to navigation. Thus, bridges had to be built wide enough for two navigation channels and high enough for bluewater ships to pass beneath. That meant that bridges were expensive to build and, thus, widely spaced. The nearest up-river bridge was nearly 30 miles away. Down-river the nearest bridge was about 25 miles. It was even darker when we began the slow, laborious, accent into the Shawangunk Mountains... the foothills of the Catskills. Out the right windows a view of the sparse, lonely, lights in the black valley below. In the distance were concentrations of lights for New Paltz and Poughkeepsie. As we inched up the mountain the Devil bucked beneath the burden. We might have been able to have gotten out and walked faster... except that we were hardly up to that sort of exertion. Suddenly Nelson jammed on the brakes. The unsuspecting amongst us were violently tossed forward. Stunned, we looked out the front windshield. No, there was no traffic jam or trailer truck. Filling our field of view was a sheer wall of rock, lit only by the Devil's dim, 6 volt, headlights. "Shit, Nelson, what the hell's going on?" Greg asked? Nelson looked like Little Boy Lost. "I don't know. One second the road was right in front of me... the next second it… it was gone!" "How can a road just disappear? This ain’t the Twilight Zone." said Tom. “No, but it is the Catskills”, I cautioned. “How the Hell do I know where it went, but it’s gone” said Nelson. As a group we began to peer out into the darkness, hoping to find a clue. "There it is", some one shouted, "to the left." Sure enough. Nelson had missed the 5-mph and other warning signs telling drivers of the impending hairpin turn. At some point, possibly many points, during the drive we were not just bound to feel lost, we actual were lost. At times like that we debated what to do. It's not that we could just stop and ask just anyone in any of these small backwater NY towns, "Oh excuse me, officer. Can you please direct us to the nearest rock festival where we can not only smoke dope openly but get more real cheap?" But, in one small town Nelson did almost that. He saw a gas station and pulled in to get some information. What he didn't know was that also parked in the lot was one of the local police. True, he may have been better suited to give us directions than the ordinary slob. But... did we need directions that badly. What could we do? We could just drive away, thereby creating justifiable suspicion in the cop's mind. Hell, just pulling into the gas station with the Devil Bus filled with loons and reeking of dope was sufficiently suspicious. We could have tried to just ask the attendant. But, what if he said something like, "Sorry boys, can't help ya. But, the Chief here knows all the highways and back roads. Ain't that right Chief? By the way boys, you must be having some problem with yer hippie bus. Lookit all the smoke pouring out yer windows!"
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