On the second day of Woodstock, while the thunderstorms were rolling through, my pregnant then-wife and I (married way too young, still in college) had packed up our picnic by the Hudson in Palisades Interstate Park, and were driving north on the Parkway there, when we stopped to pick up two very wet young women who had their thumbs out under one of the overpasses. Turns out they were going to Woodstock. So we drove them there: a trip of about 90 miles.

As we approached, there was a traffic jam of cars leaving the scene, the drivers warning us that the festival was just a big bummer: shitty sound, no toilets, mud everywhere. But the girls were excited to be there, so we dropped them off and drove home to Hackensack (another 90 miles).

One thing I remember about the drive up was that the two girls were devoted followers of Murray Bookchin. Haven’t thought about him since, but for some reason I remember his name but not the girls’.

They did write us later to thank us, though, and say they had a great time. Wish we’d stayed too.