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A recent road trip brought back memories of my thwarted trip to see the Beatles at Woodstock. Maybe hard to believe now, but that was the rumor running through the sixties counter culture. I wonder now if Paul’s plan for a grandiose Let It Be concert somehow morphed into this fantasy. Regardless, that was definitely what was on my mind when I stuck my thumb out on a freeway entrance in San Francisco and headed east toward New York.

By the end of the first day I had only travelled 200 of the 3000 mile journey. After the first few rides I had been dropped off in the middle of the state capital in Sacramento. A car pulled up with 3 black teens who laughingly knocked me down and threw my backpack in a bush. A black family saw what happened and took me with them to a birthday party. I hung out eating and drinking sodas with them until late in the afternoon, after which time they drove me to the outskirts of town and waved goodbye. By midnight I was up in the mountains and decided to camp by the side of the highway.

Bright and early I was back on the road hitchhiking, The first vehicle I saw was a VW bus chugging up the hill. As it got closer, I could hear Good Day Sunshine blasting away. They stopped and when I slid open the side door I was met by a huge Saint Bernard sitting on a mattress. The van belonged to a young hippie couple who were accompanied by an older guy who may have been their uncle. They were heading to a National Park about 500 miles away. I knew not to accept one-way rides to remote areas, but I hoped to talk them into going to see John Lennon so I went along. 

These folks were really cool and picked up travelers all along the way. Besides the bed there was a rumble seat and a carpeted floor area in back for folks to sit. There were a lot of people on the road that summer and it was a time of peace signs and sharing (feeling good in a special way). Woodstock was a big topic of conversation and the rap was turning negative; stuff like Woodstock was cancelled, the freeway was closed, the farm was declared a disaster area, Paul was dead…

Three days in, the 5 of us made it to Dinosaur Canyon. We camped by a river that meandered through the deep tree lined, red and gold canyon walls. At night I lay by the campfire and looked up at the gleaming Milky Way. During the day I would walk (doggie by my side) in the river and listen for the warm breeze traveling from far up in the gorge. It soon became apparent why we were there. The uncle appeared late the first night wearing a miners hardhat (the kind with a flashlight attached to the rim) and carrying a pickaxe. Occasionally, you would see the canyon walls illuminated by his light as he walked down river. In the morning he appeared with a burlap sack full of rocks. I didn’t figure out until much later that he was digging for fossils which I assume was highly illegal. It was also weird that in the week I spent with these folks, I never saw him sleep once.

In the end I was unable to convince them to go to Woodstock. They told me their next destination was New Orleans and dropped me off in the college town of Boulder, Colorado. It was a cool scene there with a big park where Hare Krishna’s fed the hungry and a more commercial area called The Hill where the road people had replaced the students who were on summer break. Some of the college dorm buildings were left open, so there were showers and beds. I got too comfortable and ended up not going any further east than Colorado. Later when I saw the Woodstock movie, my first thought was how in the hell did you all manage to get there?

When I returned to the canyon the other day, it was a good vibe reliving the first time this mother natures son experienced a Rocky Mountain High.