He returned to the valley where he spent the summers of his youth, mostly to relive them one last time. It was a beautiful place nestled between two mountains, as far North as you could go before the border.
It was 1969, and the world was changing. Protests became the norm, and rebellion against the establishment created a culture never before seen when young men were drafted and sent to a faraway place to fight for something many didn't believe in or even understand.
Back in the States and abroad, a new culture was brewing, with tens of thousands of young people letting their hair grow and succumbing to the temptations of weed and mind-altering drugs to escape the realities of a changing world. The flower children, hippies, and other labels like freaks and long hairs were given to those who wanted nothing more than to live in peace, play their music, and be left alone in places like this valley.
He looked into the valley from a hill, his mind traveling back to when hundreds of young people gathered there in early summer, staying until the leaves turned color. And sleeping on the ground was not an option.
Rows and rows of campsites circled the valley where, at any given time, the sounds of guitars, flutes, and smells of weed filled your senses.
But the most intense high was through mind-altering drugs like acid, mushrooms, and hash, which were used to enter a different place in your mind that usually ended well, except for a few occasions when paranoia set in, and coming down from the trip was not a good thing.
The valley was a place of beauty and peace. A place where you could catch fireflies at night in mason jars or sit at a stranger's camp offering some weed for some acid. There were no inhibitions at play, and if you wanted sex, you just asked for it from someone you found attractive and willing.
We weren't dirty hippies, as most thought. We bathed in mountain springs and often sat under a waterfall to stay cool in the summer heat. We sang songs, walked in the forest, and picked wild berries. We became one with nature and always left it looking better than when we found it.
Then, one August day, word spread that a giant outdoor concert was being held on farmland just a few miles from the valley. Old school buses and other forms of transportation were filled up and headed for the farm. Traffic was snarled for miles approaching the farm as people left their vehicles and walked on a dirt road, some for miles.
I'll never forget the size of the stage, which could be seen from a half-mile away. The speakers were as big as five washers stacked on top of each other. The prechecks were deafening. We got as close to the stage as possible, found a space, and sat down to wait. It was a couple of hours before the first band began to play. Carlos Santana played his heart out as throngs of fans danced and sang along, giving him the fuel to put on a great show. Thousands of people had found their way to the music, which I later learned could be heard miles away.
Joe Cocker, Jimmy Hendrix, Fleetwood Mac, the Who, Cat Stevens, Carly Simon, Janice Joplin, and more played throughout the night as clouds of weed filled the air and good and bad trips were seen everywhere you looked.
Then the rain came, and the once grassy fields became mud holes. The hard rain lasted for hours, creating what looked like a pig pen without pigs. The mood changed, and some gathered their stuff and headed back down the country road to the shelter of their cars and trucks. Others partied so as not to let some rain spoil the concert.
It was a memory I've carried with me for decades, a time in my life when I tried new things and luckily made it through to talk about it today.'I still wear my hair long and occasionally wear a tie-dye shirt. I listen to rock and folk classics and keep them all protected in a safe place that someday my grandchildren will inherit and hopefully enjoy them as I did so long ago.
The era may be gone, but when I pass another long-haired person on the street, I flash the peace sign that's usually returned as I remember peace and love, the unforgettable time of my life in the valley, and a farmer's field of dreams.
Mike 2025