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POWDER RIDGE DAY 1 part 3 THURSDAY, JULY 30 DRAFT copyright 2002-2006 Rockfest1970@msn.com There were two roads leading into the ski area. [?] The main gate and the road though the field we’d seen a few days before. We were at the gate. The road into liberated territory was in terrible shape. It was overgrown, narrow, windy, and the pavement was often crumbling. Soon the overgrown road gave way to fields. There was an old guard house where we picked up some promotional posters. Estimates put the crowd at about 15,000. It had already exceeded Mountaindale aka Gonkers, an aborted Festival in NY Bill and I were at a few weeks before. We also learned that the Staties were making no effort to go in and shut off utilities to the festival site. That was a good sign that the powers-that-be were having reservations about taking us on. From there were cut up a hill towards the ski slopes. The fields were filling with tents, vans, buses, cars, blankets, campfires, and Freaks weaving in between them all, exhibiting what seemed to be random motion but no doubt was purposful to them. We cut off the road into the field and weaved our own way though the confusion. This was not like Gonkers where we camped in someone’s front yard then rushed off to another town the next day. These people had taken up residence for the duration. Lee almost got hit by a Frisbee followed by a golden lab wearing a red bandana. Nearby a young woman chased down a naked toddler who was making his escape. From a Free Kitchen wafted not only the scent of cooked grains and beans but pot. I could only hope that somewhere I'd be able to get one of those corn dogs I first tried at Gonkers. From the top of the ridge we got a clearer overview of the festival site down in a small valley. Directly below was Powder Puddle... a small pond probably only about 400’x400’. In the center of the pond, a tiny island about 10’x 10’ with a single pup tent draped in a US flag. There was a canoe pulled up on its shore. “Bet the pigs will have a hard time getting to those guys on the island” I chuckled. On the far side of the pond was the main stage... surrounded by the same kind of crude wooden fens that surrounded the camp for the retarded. The stage sat at the bottom of the main ski slope that formed that natural amphitheater mentioned in the posters. On the south side of the pond was a collection of buildings... which presumably included the ski lodge. We had already decided we wanted to set up camp on one of the ski slopes.... somewhere where we could see the main stage, hear any music should there be any, yet also provide a good escape route into the woods should the Staties or National Guard try to clear the site. Since there didn’t seem to be anyway to get around the pond to the north we went south to reconnect with the main road. In a grove near the pond was a small beach with about 20 bathers, some nude, were escaping the heat wave. Near the road was a Mr. Softee truck. It seemed so out of place at a rock fest that I was disgusted... even more so by the rip-off prices. Near by, some makeshift plywood booths for vendors. They were adorned with belts, pouches, pipes, tie-die tee shirts, and leather crafts. Next to them a battery of a couple dozen pay phones.... all with lines of those waiting to make calls. No doubt people here had friends back home as we did... all waiting for some news. There was also a playground... fun for children of all ages, stoned or not. It was there we first saw “Those fabulous portable toilets you learned to love at Woodstock”. Actually, these were Johnny-On-The-Spots not Port-O-Sans. Davey and Greg had been joking about the later ever since seeing the movie Woodstock a few months back. The main road was the central artery of the festival site and once there we melted back into the flow heading west towards the ski slopes. At the ski lodge, the large steel gate was closed blocking vehicles. It was all pedestrian traffic past that point. This road, stuck between the ski lodge and the pond, was a choke point. Just about all traffic between the ski slopes to the west and the fields to the east were funneled though there. The ski lodge, cafeteria, ski shop, and the auxiliary buildings served as the hub of the site. A sign pointed to a free clinic and first aid station. There were four large tents on plywood platforms. Manning the station was Dr. Abruzzi, the famed Doctor of Woodstock. There was a food store there as well but it was closed... probably because of the court injunction. We eventually dubbed this area “The City”. Vendors stood on the side of the road hawking their wares. We felt like Babes in Toyland. Pot was going for $10 an ounce. Hits of acid and organic mescaline were $1-2 bucks. We walked by in awe of the goodies and the low prices, which were about 50-75% lower than back home. The $13 bucks burning a hole in my wallet seemed like a lot when I left home, now I regretted not bringing enough to stock up for the next year. 
Bill smacked me on the arm. He was wide-eyed with excitement. “Man, we gotta call the Circus and tell them to get their asses down here.” “And when they come they better bring lots of money” I chuckled. The road passed by one of the ski slopes. There a large open festival tent. On the other side of the pond lay the fence that protected the backside of the stage area. There was another large yellow and white striped festival tent, presumably for performers. The fence itself was covered in graffiti... such as “legalize freedom”, “legalize dope”, “do you have a cigarette” and most clever... a sea serpent that appeared to be slipping in and out of the water. A thin row of trees separated that slope from the main slope that faced the stage. The road passed between them. In a flat area above the road, two large 50’ high scaffolds had been erected for lighting and speakers. They probably weren’t meant to be climbed on but there was no shortage of Freaks making their way to the top or back down, and no one willing to stop them. The stage itself had been built on the flat roof of another ski lodge. Protecting it was that crude 8’ high wooden fence. There was tons of graffiti here too. The largest and most enigmatic was UM TUT SUM. I still don't know what it means. From there, we had a good view of the nearby ski slopes. Predictably, the main slope in front of the stage was already colonized by those who came early hoping to have the best seats in the house. There was another ski run to the north that looked promising. We made our way though the ubiquitous litter, though the maze of tents, sleeping bags, blankets, campfires, and people. As we got closer it seemed two ski runs combined into one, leading back to the stage. Even these slopes were pretty well packed so we continued up the northern most slope. Among the notables in the area was a contingent from California. The state flag was raised high between two poles. Beneath that a handmade sign that acid was $1.00 a hit and organic mescaline was $2.00. These were my kind of neighbors! As for the California encampment, we dubbed them the Cal Tent. A hundred feet beyond, we found a relatively flat space near the edge of the woods big enough for my small tent. The spot was ideal. It offered a good view of the main stage some 5-600 feet away and also provided a pretty good overview of the valley and the Apple Baron’s orchards beyond. If the pigs came, we’d have plenty of time to pack up and melt into the woods. It also offered some shade. There we collapsed from exhaustion. This was to become Home... our refuge from some of the insanity in the valley below. About 20 minutes later Lee nudged me. I opened my eyes to see a joint in front of my face. “Want a hit?” he asked. I sat up. Bill was up poking though his pack looking for something. “Shit ya!” I said and inhaled deeply. The pot had a sweet scent of hash. “Well were here!” I said to Bill as I exhaled. It was the battle cry from our trip to Gonkers a few weeks before. “At least we’re not in a ditch this time” Bill chuckled. He’d found what he was looking for: a now crushed loaf of Wonder Bread. He looked at it in disgust. Then he pulled out a small can of Underwood chicken spread. “Anyone got a can opener?” he asked. I tossed him my trusty old Boy Scout knife. He passed around sandwiches depleting our supply of bread in the process. Shit. Maybe we didn’t bring enough food after all.
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