Published in the November 25 – December 8, 2015 issue of Morgan Hill Life
By Mark Fenichel
Mark Fenichel
When I was 16 I told my Mom and Dad I was going camping with some friends … and to a concert for the weekend in upstate New York. They were not really opposed to the idea, after all I was going with some (ahem!) responsible high school seniors and meeting other friends. They were a little unsure about it, but decided it was a good exercise in responsibility for me. So that same day I went to the local ticket outlet which was right next door to a sporting goods store and bought tickets for all three days, went next door and got new sleeping bags, a Coleman lantern and a few other things needed for camping. Little did we know we were going to the largest, most historical rock concert ever: Woodstock Music and Art Fair.
It was a beautiful morning Aug. 13, 1969 as we piled into my friend Paul’s car and hit the road for a weekend forever etched into our memories. After driving for two-plus hours, traffic got heavy and we found ourselves slowing to a snail’s pace in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam. Our travels came to a complete halt as darkness began to set in. With hopes of getting there before sundown, we patiently sat in the traffic jam as one hour went by, then another and still another. Suddenly cars started to move. We moved about 15 feet, then came to a complete halt.
We knew we were close but not sure exactly how close as people started getting out of their cars and hanging out wherever they were stopped. At that point it was pitch dark as we sat in the blackness pondering our next move. It turned out the cars moved again but it was just an illusion as the vehicles started pulling off the road into a big field, creating a snowball effect as more and more cars filled the field. It looked like a good idea so we followed suit and ended up on a thick grassy spot about 30 feet from the highway. We pitched our new tent, laid out our sleeping bags and watched as this seemed to be where the party was happening.
I recall that next morning waking to the bright sunrise and looking around to see a giant field packed with cars, tents and people curled up in sleeping bags and blankets, some just sleeping on the ground. The road was a giant sea of very slow moving cars as far as the eye could see. We decided to pack up and carry our equipment as we headed to the road. We thought we were pretty close to the festival grounds. But we were actually still about five miles from the festival site.
I remember walking for hours and meeting many people along the way as if we were all on some kind of pilgrimage. Occasionally someone let us put our stuff on their trunk lid or hood, or even allowed us to get on the back of their car as we slowly crept our way toward the gate. After many hours in the baking sun, we arrived at the gate only to find the fence was laying on the ground and everyone was stepping over the chain link and walking into Woodstock. I still have those tickets as proof I was there.
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On another note: As we kick off the holiday season I have much to be thankful for. My family, friends, music and my association with the biggest little paper, Morgan Hill Life. I will be writing more about my adventures and first-hand experiences. Have a wonderful and safe holiday season.
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