Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, August 14, 1994 TAG: 9408130007
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 7 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: RAY COX STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Such a development isn't new, of course, but that doesn't make it any easier to take. When conversation turns to that epic Carroll County gathering on the banks of the New River, I shed a silent tear.
Eighteen years later, some of the romantics among us are calling it Southwest Virginia's version of Woodstock. It was my Waterloo.
According to some accounts, the great hippie hoedown represented a slice of popular culture from a simpler time.
To me, it represented sliced feet - mine - the product of too many hikes across sharp stones, tree roots and broken glass sans shoes.
Cut feet, sunburn and lack of sleep notwithstanding, had Stompin' been a hand of cards, it would have been the best one I was ever dealt.
And I butchered it.
The fact of the matter is, there probably will never be another event in my lifetime that presented the money-making potential of that three days in the searing August sun. Had I acted decisively at the time, I probably wouldn't be tapping out this account now.
I'd be sailing my 50-foot yacht between South Pacific archipelagoes.
All it would have taken was some hasty arrangements for a refrigerator truck full of ice.
Provided the truck wasn't destroyed and the driver trampled by the stampede of buyers, a fellow could have taken his profits, arranged for another truck, and kept them coming, load after load.
That fellow should have been me.
This isn't 20/20 hindsight either. Some associates and I saw the possibilities at the time and discussed them. Here it was August, and 100,000 or so thirsty folks had descended on this dusty patch of real estate to hear the likes of the Earl Scruggs Review and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and nowhere could there be found any ice to chill down the beer.
Not a cube.
What's the big deal, you may be wondering? Why not just hop in the car and drive to the nearest convenience store?
Didn't work that way. All those people that had filed in from places like Getaway, Ohio, and Deep Gap, N.C., had paralyzed roads that were meant for transporting a load of produce or cattle to market, not that kind of traffic. Thus, if you'd managed to get there at all through the gridlock, you were there for the duration.
It was eight miles from Galax, but it might as well have been 800.
An astute businessman would have seen opportunity and not obstacles in such circumstances. When opportunity knocked I, like the lazy 19-year-old I was, yawned and went swimming in the New River.
"God almighty!" said one awestruck hippie next to me when he saw the skinny-dippers. "I've never seen so many nekkid wimmen in my life!"
There was a lot of stuff you'd never seen the likes of in your life.
We got there Thursday night, two carloads of us, one group in a vintage Mercedes, the other in an aging Plymouth Valiant. It was probably 10 miles from the site when we couldn't go any further for the traffic. So like everybody else, we just pulled the cars over and camped out in some farmer's field.
It would probably be irresponsible to blame some trouble that developed that night at our encampment entirely on a substantial amount of Ancient Age bourbon that made the rounds there. Be that as it may, a couple of our crew, two brothers from Salem, soon got to arguing about whether we should move the campsite.
Next thing the rest of us knew, the punches were flying. We couldn't get them broken up until both of them had rolled through the pitiful effort at a campfire we'd built earlier.
Peace was restored, but one of the brothers had knots on his head that looked like a carton of eggs.
The next day, we somehow wove our way in the two cars through the throng and to the very gates of the site. When challenged, we told them we had "concessions." Although we were suspect-looking vendors, that seemed to satisfy those in authority.
Along the way, we'd picked up numerous pilgrims, who were riding on the roof, fenders, hood and trunk of the Valiant. The bumper almost dragged the pavement.
"We'll never make it," I said.
"Don't worry," the driver said. "This baby has a slant-six in it, a proven engine."
Inside the festival compound, there seemed to be several topics of general conversation. One was the heat and humidity, one was the lack of a cold drink of any description, and one was the bikers.
My experience with bikers was not extensive at the time. I don't want to convey the impression that these mounted gangsters with their chains, leather-covered and studded wooden staffs and greasy jeans were a menacing lot (in fact, I hope none are reading this), but I knew at that time how Roman citizens must have reacted when the first Visigoths came strolling through the forum.
Over the years, there has been a great deal of discussion about the availability of illegal drugs on premises. Although the statute of limitations has expired, don't expect any confessions here.
Nevertheless, despite the infamous dusty boulevard with its makeshift stands from which the dope peddlers plied their illegal trade, the overwhelming anecdotal evidence was that these dudes and chicks were pushing some of the most ineffective products ever assembled in one place.
One old country cowfreak that I ran into said that the pot he'd purchased wasn't good enough to feed the livestock.
Maybe that was why all those bikers were so cranky. They couldn't get high to save their gizzards.
The music was pretty good, as I recall, but we'd had enough and elected to split on Saturday so as to avoid the traffic pulling out on Sunday.
After taking a look at the aerial photos in Monday's paper, I'd have to say that was the smartest thing we'd done all weekend.
by CNB