No sooner does Santana’s set end than Bernard returns, and he and Tinsley go off to take pictures. Lucas remains behind listening to the Incredible String Band, a quirky British folk group whose music seems better suited to a coffeehouse than a huge outdoor festival. Tinsley’s left her knapsack, so maybe she’ll change her mind about Bernard like she did with Mr. Leather Vest Hairy Chest. Indeed, as dark falls, she returns alone with a paper plate of brown rice and a real treasure: a can of SpaghettiOs. Lucas pries it open with his Swiss Army knife, and they feast on cold canned pasta and rice for dinner. Not bad when you’re high and famished.

Sunday, August 17

Sometime after midnight, after a soggy set by the Grateful Dead, the rain ceases and the show takes off. Creedence Clearwater, followed by Janis Joplin, followed by Sly and the Family Stone, who put on an insane performance that wakes anyone who’s sacked out and has us all on our feet, dancing and cheering.

It’s still dark when the Who launches into Tommy, but dawn is nearing. While the band explodes onstage in the dark glen at the bottom of the slope, morning light begins to illuminate the distant surrounding hills. Bare-chested Daltrey — wearing an open jacket with long wild white fringe — and Townshend in a white jumpsuit are manic rock-and-roll acrobats while Moon is his normal berserk self on the drums. How I wish Arno were here to watch his favorite band thunder into the dawn.

The Who is followed by a raucous Jefferson Airplane set. By the time Grace Slick and band finish their encore, a little after nine thirty a.m., Tinsley and I have been awake for nearly thirty hours. Using my knapsack as a pillow, I curl up on the sleeping bag, cover my face with my jacket, and fall asleep.

When I wake around lunchtime, Tinsley and her knapsack are gone.

In the drizzly distance, a bearded figure carrying a long stick propped against his shoulder is weaving around vehicles and tents in the muddy grass field behind the stage. I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour by the big pink-and-white-striped medical tent. People come, or are brought, into the tent with all sorts of injuries, but mostly cut feet. Later they leave with one foot bandaged, the other still bare.

An hour ago, I handed a note to a big guy wearing a cowboy hat at the makeshift wooden wall by the stage entrance: “Barry, meet Cousin Lucas at the medical tent. Urgent.” The guy said he’d get the note to Chip, whoever that is.

Before that I’d spent several hours huddled under a hay wagon with a bunch of others, trying to stay dry while rain and windstorms barreled through.