Ahead, the exit we want is blocked by fifty-gallon oil drums. Two state troopers in yellow slickers are waving at cars to continue north. The oil drums may block cars from the exit, but there’s plenty of room for a motorcycle to slip through. With a rush of adrenaline, I twist the throttle, feel the cycle accelerate and Tinsley’s arms grow extra tight around my waist. We veer out of the traffic and zip between two oil drums and down the misty two-lane road beyond. It feels like a scene out of Easy Rider.

The wet pavement is lined by trees, farms, and fields of corn under low-hanging patches of fog. We begin to pass cars abandoned haphazardly along the roads’ shoulders and hundreds of freaks walking toward the festival, many of them in rain-darkened clothes, their hair wet and matted.

The road itself becomes so clogged with people and abandoned cars that it’s impassable, even on a motorcycle. I have to pull off and ride slowly along the edges of grassy yards and fields, weaving in and out of the endless column of trudging bodies.

Heading up a slight rise, we join a large crowd tromping over a portion of shiny new chain-link fence that’s been trampled into the wet grass. No one’s taking tickets: everyone is free to enter. Moments later, while trying to get around a wide muddy puddle, I feel the cycle slide out from under us. Tinsley and I find ourselves sitting on the muddy grass, the BSA on its side at our feet, the rear wheel slowly turning. A bearded, barefoot freak with a red bandanna wrapped around his forehead plods through the mud and holds out a large green gallon jug of wine. “You look like you could use this.”

We’ve arrived.

An ocean of freaks — by far the most enormous crowd I’ve ever seen — is spread over the broad face of a gradually sloping hill. Not one football field’s worth, but a dozen or more. Thousands and thousands of cultural heretics and flower children standing, sitting, lying on the ground. Tinsley and I share a wide-eyed look. Who could have imagined anything like this?

At the bottom of the slope, hundreds of yards away, an outdoor stage sits among tall yellow scaffold towers. From where we stand, on a dirt road at the fringe of the crowd, the people on the stage are the size of ants. It’s before noon and the day’s lineup of acts hasn’t begun. Off to the distant right and left are fields filled with tents and microbuses, cars and psychedelically painted school buses. Leaving the BSA on the dirt road, Tinsley and I make our way through the crowd — many seated or lying on blankets or sleeping bags — trying to get closer to the stage.