The rides out of Milwaukee and into the countryside of southern Wisconsin were so easy. In all of his 18 years he had never found it so easy, and with like minded people.
He had intended on thumbing to Lake Geneva about a girl, but in transit discovered the magnetic draw of Jerry Garcia to the Mecca of Alpine Valley. Folks from all over the country were converging on these cornfields, as if by magic. And magic it was, or at least it seemed, at noon on this purely beautiful summer morning.
The van dropped him off on the hill by the entrance. He grabbed his pack and started to stroll among the followers. This was new to him. The girl would have to wait.
All day in the sun, woods, and fields, drinking beers and throwing the disc. He witnessed and reveled in the sinful combinations of libation, unlaced libido, and liberation. These were the days of youth that went on and on.
Until the music began…..and he found himself outside the large fence looking in, along with many who began to feel that the fence did not belong in that moment. He tossed his pack over, and thus committed himself to the crime.
Wandering through the grass woven with wannabe followers, he began to understand the strange and unique influence the Grateful Dead had on the multitudes. Powerful……really! The music ebbed and flowed from still to raucous, with the people mimicking the rhythms with their bodies.
Everyone looked their best. Or so it seemed to him on that day, at that moment.
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