Driving up to Kesey’s Farm
Tuesday, June 9th, 1970. I don’t always remember exactly when or how things happened but for once I have some help. That’s because I’m telling this story with the help of Terry Reim, onetime editor of the Berkeley Barb and a fine writer who kept a journal as he went. Terry was an excellent traveling companion who left us a few years back for parts unknown. When I heard of his passing, I began a flurry of emails back and forth with his companion and his daughter and as part of that, I received a portion of his journal. A good thing because I’m never sure how much of what I remember is real and how much is…even better. So in this case, I get to tell you the story as I remember it but with the verification of Terry’s words written right after it happened in 1970. If you think of this as both me and Terry telling you the story, I think Terry would like it.
Bobby Skye, Terry Reim and I got into the van and headed up to Oregon to visit Kesey at the farm. Kesey was a powerful totem for me, a mythic figure and the guy who had turned me onto Nitrous Oxide a year earlier. That introduction, sitting in the front of The Fast Bus, the Hog Farm bus I was living on had opened my senses to psychedelics in a way nothing else had ever done. Out of that visioned afternoon, I had gained an alter ego, and I had taken on an alternative identity, Captain Gas; might as well pay Ken a visit.
We headed out of San Francisco in Terry’s van, driving up U.S.1, cruising along the coastline.
Terry writes — “In Inverness, we stopped to see Elf & On. “Don’t get caught in any Box Canyons,” Elf told us as we were leaving; but it did no good”. Somewhere along the way in the late afternoon, we took some psychedelics, first Psilocybin, and an hour later when we were sure the drugs hadn’t worked some acid. Then all the drugs kicked in and the day turned sweetly cosmic. We parked on a bluff overlooking the Pacific and walked along the cliff feeling the winds blowing and listening to the surf crashing below. Then woosh, a big gust of wind grabbed my hat right off of my head. It went sailing out over the edge and skittered down till it landed on the rocks below. It was only fifty or sixty feet away but straight down and no way to get to it. Shit damn, what a fucking disaster! That hat was totally part of me, beloved and unique and my companion along the way. I had to get it back.
Terry…A few hours later up Route 1 we got out to piss at sunset by the ocean. The wind caught Andy’s old battered straw hat and carried it about 50 feet down into a what? Yup, a Box Canyon. “I gotta get that hat!” Andy yells and starts scaling down the side. “Remember what Elf told us?” I yell back to him into the heavy wind, running about the rim as Andy heads downward. “It’s gonna be dark soon and you’ll never find your way out,” I say. “I gotta get that hat — I’ve had it for years — that hat’s been with me everywhere,” Andy calls back up, “I gotta get it.”
“You have to know when to let go!” Sky yells down to him “Let it be.” “It’s not time yet” Andy counters…
Looking down at my hat through the acid it seemed possible I could climb back up but in reality, probably not. The water came right into the cliff face at the bottom then crashed on the rocks at the edge. The bluff swept away from our position in an arc and then the ends of it disappeared. The earth was soft, pieces of it would come away in my hand and it was steep…really steep. I had to have my hat though so I started down…
…It’s getting dark fast now, the wind is howling across the cliff. “We’re not going to convince him,” I yell to Sky, “so we might as well help.” “Wait a minute,” I yell to Andy, “I’ve got 100 feet of rope in the truck. I’ll back it up and we’ll tie it to the bumper.” I back the truck up and Sky ties the rope to the bumper then lowers himself into the canyon.
In a minute we’re back on Route 1, hat in Andy’s hand, now on his head. The acid and psilocybin zooming gently through our veins…
I climbed back up and Sky headed down. Terry and I waited on the edge above, stoned and anxious. But just a few minutes later Sky was back and triumphantly handing me my hat. We got back in the van and headed north.
…Later that night of a new moon, we turned off the engine, the headlights, and Andy and I get atop the van lying down and looking up at the stars. Sky’s at the wheel and brake guiding us silently down the mountain road in the dark…
A few hours later we were on a two-lane road winding up through Redwood forests. Something grand was playing on the radio. Something good enough that as we crested the hill and the signal dropped away we turned back. We pulled off the road and sat there listening. In the darkness the night was immense. The trees towered over our heads touching the stars and the sky. Terry and I grabbed sleeping bags and spread them on the roof, climbed up, and lay there looking into the cosmic night. Everything was alive, soft, and beautiful. Sky got into the driver’s seat, started the van, and slowly pulled us out onto the road. As soon as the slope of the hill would carry us along, he cut the engine and the lights and we coasted down the road. As we floated down it seemed the trees and the skies floated along with us, part of our journey. The breeze was part of us, we were part of it. We were part of it all.
We drifted down the road for maybe ten minutes, the only sound the shhh of our tires. There was no traffic, no talking, nothing but sensation. I’ve been a lot more loaded but I don’t think I’ve ever been higher. Finally though, the road started to level out and when we had slowed to a crawl, Sky pulled over and Terry and I climbed back inside.
For years I had some raggedy memories of all this. They were emotionally powerful but unreal enough that I didn’t totally trust them. But now, I had Terry’s corroboration written just three days after it happened. Reading his version tells me that what I remembered was true enough and it blesses my memory with Terry’s truth. This thing really happened and it was important enough in the moment that he wrote it down and I remembered it for almost fifty years.
As I get older, I think a lot about what we remember and why. About the truth that slowly comes from the telling. Having doubted it, it’s a pleasure to have this memory trustworthy again. Because when you come down to it, memory is at best the edited version of our lives. What we tell ourselves and others about who we were, what we did, and when. Well here’s one thing I can say really happened.
Ready for more stories? Check out Stories I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You. Andy Romanoff’s memoir. It chronicles his long and crazy years and how he survived them all to tell these stories. Andy takes you along for the ride as he makes a meaningful life for himself without turning his back on the things he’s done, good and bad.
Early readers have said things like:
“Andy Romanoff may well be the last surviving beatnik. Not just a witness of the American counter-culture movement, he was a willing accomplice. STORIES I’VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL YOU is a journey through the American underground that began in the 1950s and impacted all the generations after."
"STORIES I’ve Been MEANING TO TELL YOU is a terrific read about chasing dreams while on the run from the demons that pursue those born wild and uncompromising."
“Fascinating, impossible to put down, and deeply affecting, STORIES I’VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL YOU is at once an insider’s oral history of the 60s counterculture, and a profound meditation on the healing love of family and friends. From his movie-industry camera work through Hollywood’s craziest years to his travels with the Hog Farm, Romanoff’s witness cred is impeccable---his are the stories I’ve always wanted to hear about this era which unfolded when I was still too young to take part. Yet it is the emotional power of this book that really shines. Building an emotionally compelling story—fiction or nonfiction—is the hardest of writerly feats, and Romanoff nails it. His vulnerability is real. His love blazes. And not just for family, but for his extensive and colorful cast of friends..."