For the past two days, I’ve waited for word from her about when she thought she could sneak out again. She finally called last night, proposing I come get her at dawn. As I lean the ladder against the brick wall and start to climb over, I wonder what awaits us. During the past two days, the news about the festival has gotten crazier and crazier. The New York Thruway has been shut down. (We’ll avoid it by going up Route 17 through New Jersey.) There’s word that the national guard may be brought in. The governor of New York has declared a state of emergency. It sounds like the coolest thing ever.

The toes of my boots grow dark in the rain-soaked grass as I carry the ladder across the lawn and around to Tinsley’s side of the manse. Beneath her bedroom window, I open the ladder and climb up as far as I can. From inside, the shade is swept aside and the sash goes up. Rapunzel grins mischievously and pushes a small knapsack out. It tumbles over the eave and into my arms. A moment later, she’s inching, crab-style, over slippery slate shingles.

I guide her boots to the top of the ladder and help her down. The scent of patchouli is in the damp air. On the lawn, she throws her arms around my neck and hugs me excitedly.

The BSA’s seat is long enough for two. Behind it, I’ve lashed my knapsack and sleeping bag to a small luggage rack. Tinsley wears her knapsack on her back. I give her a spare helmet and a red bandanna with which to periodically reach around and wipe the raindrops off my goggles.

With Tinsley’s arms tight around my waist, we light out through the rain and mist. The trip takes us over the Throgs Neck Bridge, across the Bronx, over the George Washington Bridge, and into New Jersey — the very route that may someday separate Alan and me from the paterfamilias. The rain is sometimes heavy, sometimes light. It soaks through our jackets and pants legs. Many of the cars going in our direction are filled with longhairs. When we pass a slow-moving psychedelically painted microbus, I feel a wistful pang for Odysseus and Robin.

Here and there, straggly-haired freaks stand on the road shoulder with their thumbs out. No one bothers with handwritten signs. There’s only one place anyone’s hitching to this morning.

On Route 17 the traffic grows progressively heavier until, near Monticello, it slows to a crawl. An hour ago, we were part of a pilgrimage. Now it’s a long-haired, tie-dyed crusade.