It occurs to me that I can mark 50 years since leaving NYC, bound for parts west. I was just shy of sixteen. Here is the story:
In the spring of 1972 I had wanted to go to California for almost half my young life. Every week I would seek out a copy of the San Francisco Oracle and read it cover to cover. My record collection was full of The Jefferson Airplane and the Dead. West coast sound. I had been bumming around the north east for some time, but had not figured out how to get all the way to the left coast. That is when what looked like an opportunity presented itself.
On a chilly morning in early April I bounded up the five flights of stairs to the crash pad the Earth People had rented near Avenue B in what was known as Alphabet City. Avenue B was just at the edge so I was able to walk there alone in daylight. I had friends further east though, and if I wanted to visit them I would call first and two dudes would meet me at the subway for the walk.
But this particular morning I heard something exciting. My friends were planning a road trip. The Earth People had a tract of land in Northern Vermont, this apartment in NYC, and a house in Berkeley. A small group was going to be heading west. To California? Maybe…
I wanted to go with them.
There was a problem though. My jailbait condition. To overcome this obstacles we would need a letter from my father. Off we went to my family home in quaint little Bedford Village, where my parents owned two acres and an old farmhouse of about 3000 square feet, white with green shutters, and a circle drive.
I was able to pack a few things. Including my favorite reading material, a copy of the Whole Earth Catalog. And some Brautigan. None of the other travelers were much for reading, but I needed my fix.
My father wrote the letter and got it notarized. And off we went.
It was early May when the seven of us tumbled into the beat up VW van that was to be our ride. She was ugly, but mechanically sound.
The driver was Jerry, a Vietnam vet who had given a leg for his county, or at least for a few oligarchs. He could stay up for days but his sense of direction was a bit impaired, as you will see.
His running buddy was Larry Lee. An old school member of the counter culture that springs up at the edge of every empire. He got to ride shotgun unless he was crashed.
All the rest of us were girls or women. We rode in the back.
Sylvie was a six foot tall Puerto Rican hooker who had never been out of Alphabet City or the lower east side in her 32 years. She later burned down the Earth People’s house on San Pablo in Berkeley, trying to wash clothes over an open fire in the back yard. But this was a few years earlier.
The other fellow passenger that I remember was Shelly. A very pretty 23 year old whom I hated. I had been living with Jerry but he had wandered to her. So I moved on to Larry. It was always better to have a male protector.
We did OK coming out of Manhattan on I-80, just as the sun was setting. I stayed up looking out the window into the darkness for a long time, but finally fell asleep.
But when I woke up around 10 AM we were no longer on I-80. Jerry had lost the interstate, don’t ask me how, and next thing we knew we were swimming in the Missouri River. Then we started north for quite some time until we reached Denver.
It turned out Jerry was an attractions buff. So we toured the Coors Beer plant. Before we went we stopped at a Micky D’s for coffee and to splash some water on our faces to look normal for the straight people. But we still caused a stir.
Then continued north towards Blackfoot territory, at Larry Lee’s behest. I rolled the joints and the boys smoked ‘em.
In Three Forks we reached our next attraction. The Madison Buffalo Jump. In earlier times the Natives of that region had set up a spot where they could drive buffalo off a cliff, making hunting much more efficient. The area at the bottom was full of cactus and I went walking through it in sandals. It took three days to get all the quills out.
Now we were on I-90 and cruising west at the Canadian border.
I had never seen such a big sky. One evening we drove under seven rainbows. A man and his son gave us a large fish and we fried it up. I don’t know why, we looked like “dirty hippies”. Maybe it was the presence of five girls. Or maybe they just figured we were hungry.
Eventuality we reached the Pacific. My first view of this ocean that has haunted my dreams for half a decade was in Washington State, below Seattle. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
We ran into a dude with a house on the beach and crashed for a few days. I was the designated cook. I remember making pancakes for around 15 people, all crashed at that beach house. That was the way things worked back then. At least in our world, if not the straight world.
It came time to move on. Jerry tossed a coin. Heads to Vancouver, Canada, and tails to Berkeley. It came up tails and about two days later my life in California began.
We crossed the Oregon border into California on I-5 at around 10 PM. I was in the back and undressed when we got pulled over for a broken tail light.
I dressed in 30 seconds, just pulled my tie dyed dress over my head. Then I pulled that letter out of my bag. Sure enough they marched all 7 of us out of the vehicle.
They were California State Troopers. They tossed the van, but without much conviction. The weed was under a floor board and they didn’t find it.
They looked at me, then at the notarized letter, then back at me. But, an hour later, we were released with a fix it ticket.
We landed at the Earth People’s house at 6 AM. As the local denizens woke up there was lots of hugging and back slapping as old friends reunited. And several far joints were smoked.
I stuck around for a few days but then started exploring the surrounding area. It turned out that my sister and her boyfriend lived about three doors up. But that is a story for another day.
I was to stay in the greater Bay Area for another 43 years, only leaving for New Mexico in 2015 at nearly 59 years old.
And that concludes today’s Monday story time.
Good dream, good read, Annabel! Thanks! Have you read Ilene English's Hippie Chick and Peter Coyote's Sleeping Where I Fell? I'm so glad you are still on the case, politically and culturally!