Flashback. It has been almost fifty-five years since Woodstock. Over 500,000 people came together on a 600-acre farm to celebrate peace and music in the shadow of the Vietnam War—an iconic event that redefined counterculture and reshaped rock history.
Music, Mud, and Freedom: My Cousin and I Hitchhiked Our Way Into the Wild Ride That Was Woodstock.
For many of us who came of age in the ’60s and ’70s, drugs weren’t just recreational—they were a doorway. In the right setting, with the right mindset, psychedelics like LSD or psilocybin could unlock profound experiences of awe, connection, empathy, and spiritual wonder.
As a baby boomer, I can say that some of the most formative insights of my life began with a tab of acid or a handful of magic mushrooms. They opened my heart, expanded my mind, and changed how I related to the world and its people. But not every trip was enlightening.
One wrong dose at the wrong time became a descent into paranoia, despair, and disconnection.
Psychedelics are double-edged swords—capable of cutting through illusion, but just as capable of creating it.
They can feed your soul, unravel it, spark a spiritual awakening, or ruin it. What feels like a revelation in one moment can, in the next, turn into disillusionment.
What seems like eternal love can evaporate overnight, leaving a trail of emptiness.
Back then, these experiences could offer a glimpse of heaven—or a plunge into hell.
You had to be wise—or at least lucky—to navigate them safely.
I was only thirteen when I first entered that wild and wonderful chaos.
On the morning of August 11, 1969, I ironed my favorite peasant blouse, the kind all the hippie girls wore back then, and called my cousin as soon as my dad left for work.
With Dotti gone and my little brothers off on their bikes, Sherry and I were ready—Woodstock was calling, and we were about to step into the music that would define our generation.
We each left a note for our parents saying we were headed to New York and would be back in about a week.
We signed them, “Peace and Love.”
There was no way we were going to miss Woodstock. Traveling from California, the road trip was a significant undertaking. The journey was an adventure, and we faced limited amenities and unpredictable conditions. The road trip became a communal experience, with us connecting and sharing stories.
Not long after we hit the road, the first VW bus going that way picked us up. Sherry called her mom from a pay phone to let her know where we were headed and that we’d be okay.
I’ll never forget her mom screaming, “WHAT?”
Getting rides was easy. One of them came from a group of handsome, long-haired bikers.
We stopped to sleep somewhere along the way—on the ground.
They had blankets; we didn’t.
It didn’t matter.
They were rebels, and so were we—instant connection.
One of the bikers and I didn’t go further than second base.
I’ve always been kind and gentle—unless someone crosses a line.
And I made that very clear.
We arrived at Woodstock late Thursday night, packed into a car with five others. Just as we rounded a bend near the Monticello racetrack, traffic came to a complete stop. We weren’t moving an inch.
After a while, someone approached our car and said, “Just go to sleep—we’ll wake you in the morning.”
So we did.
It was surreal—sleeping in a car on a highway, surrounded by thousands of others doing the same. When morning came, someone knocked on the window to wake us. We rolled in slowly, inch by inch, toward the festival grounds. People kept trying to jump into the car, hoping for a ride.
At one point, we got stuck in the mud—but a group of bikers appeared out of nowhere and pushed us free, no questions asked.
We ended up parking about five miles from the stage—there was no way to get the car any closer.
It happened to be in front of a small daycare or nursery. What stuck with me most was the endless stream of people walking past us all night. It was like a living river that never stopped flowing. That was the spirit of Woodstock. People shared what they had, looked out for each other, and helped without hesitation.
It wasn’t just a concert—it was a community.
That sense of unity, of being part of something bigger than ourselves, made it unforgettable.
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