Love Valley Rock Festival 1970

 

                                                    Love Valley Rock Festival 1970

I moved down to North Carolina with Brad after high school. We had just returned from Charlottesville where we had gone to harvest some of our 16-foot-tall cannabis plants. We thought we were clever to store them behind the roof liner of his van to dry and transport.  We heard about a rock festival at Love Valley N.C., a location which normally was a wild west reenactment venue. Supposedly if you came early to set up, you got in free. So, armed with about a pound of mediocre marijuana, we went.

It was anarchy. There were so many people, the town, normal population 99, was overwhelmed. Crowd estimates were as high as an unlikely 200000. It was dubbed “The South’s Woodstock”. Traffic was at a standstill. Lines formed at the few fresh water sources. Several scary biker groups showed up and apparently were hired for security.

Late one night I lost a hit of LSD in between the slats of the boardwalk. I was on my knees trying to fish it out when I heard a click, and a deep voice saying, “what the hell are you up to”. I looked up into the barrel of a huge revolver, being held by a man wearing a long winter underwear onesie, and a cowboy hat. I stammered that I had dropped a quarter and was trying to get it. He said “like hell you were, now git” I got.

The Allman Brothers Band was the headliner. I honestly don’t remember much of the music. But for some reason I distinctly remember one unknown person in the audience who periodically would let out a very penetrating high-pitched yowl, that would decrescendo into a hyena type cackle.The crowd loved it.

What with the overcrowding, we were lucky, we had Brads van to sleep in. And in my usual boy scout mode, I had brought food, probably a lot of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. And there was all that pot. 

I think we must have left early, because we did miss the incident at the end where a person who had been deputized, had a shotgun, and shot dead a man in traffic who refused commands. Like I said, it was anarchy. And it is interesting how the decades have sanitized the memories. Most accounts now gloss over the bikers, and don't even mention the killing.

Great pictures at https://buzzell.smugmug.com/Events/Love-Valley-Rock-Festival-1970. I didn’t see myself.

                                                              Wick Hunt

The Claudius Crozet Blue Ridge Tunnel

 

The Claudius Crozet Blue Ridge Tunnel

 

It was 85 sunny degrees outside. Inside the Claudius Crozet Blue Ridge Tunnel, it was a refreshing 60 degrees. The 4,273-foot-long engineering marvel pierced Afton Mountain with sweat, gunpowder and lives. Between 1850 and 1858 beneath Rockfish Gap in the Blue Ridge Mountains, progress was measured in feet per week due to the unexpectedly hard Catoctin Greenstone.

The east trailhead is located at 215 Afton Depot Ln. Afton, VA, below the top of Afton Mountain. The west entrance is at 483 Three Notched Mountain HWY, Waynesboro, VA. The east trailhead has a spacious parking lot with explanatory signs marking the beginning of the ¾ mile trail to the east entrance. It is an easy hike, with a gentle rise on level packed rotten stone walkway, partially shaded by adjacent Black walnut, locust and Sassafras. 

Unlike the west entrance’s elegant stonework, the east side is bare rock. 

As I enter the darkness, I see a small point of light in the distance. That is the west entrance.

 

Water drips from the ceiling, and puddles shine up from my headlamp. My somewhat inadequate headlamp does not illuminate the sidewalls, or my feet. The only frame of reference is the generally featureless packed rock dust path, and the pinpoint of light representing the other entrance. The effect is rather vertiginous. When I turn out the light, I can feel the mass of 620 feet of mountain above, or perhaps the presence of the 14 Irish immigrants and 3 black slaves who gave their lives to create this marvel. The point of light representing my goal does seem to slowly get larger, but also seems to recede. Finally, I enter sunlight on the Shenandoah Valley side. The western portion of the tunnel is lined with brickwork, the entrance dressed in artfully laid block. 

Still present are the remains of the gunpowder bores in the solid rock, painstakingly created by hitting a stout metal rod with a heavy hammer to chip a bit of rock, then rotating the rod a bit to prevent wedging, and striking it, again and again.

 I return into the cool dark, again a tiny point of light in the distance, this time the east entrance.

Want to know more? The nonprofit Blue Ridge Tunnel Foundation has done a wonderful job.

 https://www.blueridgetunnel.org/

Wear study footwear, expect some puddles, and bring a bright source of light, perhaps two! It is well worth a trip up the mountain, especially on a hot summer day.

                                     Wick Hunt

The Wall, A True Story

 

The Wall

 

Life is always interesting on the Circle.  Of the six apartments in the building next door, four turned over this week.  It is always a learning curve for everybody involved.

 Sunday I was on the lower deck working on a project. A black SUV pulled out of its parking place at speed and backed into our retaining wall with loud crunching sound.  The young lady driver got out of the car, inspected the back of her car, and drove away.  All I could clearly see was that it was a black SUV, and the driver was female. However, the damage to the wall was obvious. 

 

 That evening a black SUV appeared in in the driveway. I still didn’t know who was driving it or where they lived, or if it was the same car. And astoundingly, the only visible damage to this Jeep were scrapes on the bumper of indeterminate age. But it did match rubber remnants on the wall. Still, I only had circumstantial evidence. 

The next day, coincidentally, Pam and Elaine, the more responsible wives of the previous feckless building owner husbands, appeared to discuss maintenance of the driveway. I pointed out the damage and wondered if they knew who owned a black SUV. They didn’t, but promised to send an email to all the tenants. Elaine in particular was incensed. She said “I didn’t raise five boys and not learn how to get to the bottom of things.”

I don’t know what she put in that email, but the next evening the doorbell rang. A very young couple I didn’t know stood there. They didn’t look old enough to be out of high school. The young lady sported green hair, and a lanyard identifying her as: Archeologist, Montpelier. She very nervously blurted out a confession and an apology of sorts (“I may have scraped your wall” was her initial attempt). The young man, guilt free, was friendly and relaxed. She wanted to know what I wanted to do. I suggested she check with her auto insurance carrier. The young man quickly asked if they could repair the wall themselves. I warned them that it would involve a lot of digging. This amused the young man, who noted that, as both were archeologists, they were pretty good at digging. I recognized that this would probably involve some extra work for myself, but I was charmed by the idea. Some of the best young friends we have made were from doing mutual projects, such as clearing the shared driveway of snow. So I agreed to provide tools and adhesive. We will see. The landlords promised to monitor progress also.

Afterwards I was overwhelmed by nostalgia. How did 18-year-old Alice and 20-year-old Wick appear to our mostly elderly neighbors when we arrived at our basement apartment exactly 50 years ago? We were brash and full of confidence and ourselves. Yet we must have appeared to our neighbors then, as these two did to me now, as children with much to learn. And our neighbors then would have been correct.

Wick Hunt 

P.S.

The young couple said they would start repairs on Sunday. We left at two with no repairs in sight. When we returned at 6 we found this, an expertly repaired wall: