Woodstock Rising. Tom Wayman
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the route out of town, after arranging to meet Jay and Pump at a gas station in South Laguna where they aimed to refuel, the five of us in Willow’s microbus rolled by Alan’s to inquire if he was interested in joining the expedition. He had phoned Guantanamero Bay during the afternoon to announce his return to his abode of the previous year in Glomstad Lane. Like Emma, he rented the ground-floor apartment of a small house. The area he lived in differed, though, from the districts of Laguna inhabited by the rest of us, where streets rose steeply but regularly up the hillside. Glomstad Lane was a curving goat track, wide enough for much of its length to permit only a single vehicle to inch along it. The lane was situated in a small box canyon, reachable only by tracing a labyrinth of similar narrow, winding streets, with houses perched chaotically on the slopes lining the way. Lush vegetation masked driveways, street names, carports, and the dwellings themselves.
At Alan’s our carload trooped inside for a flurry of greetings and reminiscences. Our host was watching television on his ancient set, which featured two large circular control dials protruding above the screen; the model had been dubbed the Frog for its uncanny resemblance to the head of that reptile. Alan declined to accompany us once he had sworn not to repeat a word to anybody and Edward had provided him with a sketchy account of our destination. “Mission: Impossible’s on,” Alan explained. “It’s a rerun, but I haven’t seen it. Let me know what happens, though,” he said as we filed out his door again.
We retraced the maze of streets back toward the highway, having to reverse once to a wider spot to allow an oncoming late-model Plymouth Fury to squeeze by. At last we intersected Glenneyre, which paralleled PCH a block inland through much of the southern half of Laguna. Moments later our Volksie rendezvoused with Jay’s van, and we were putt-putting south behind him toward Dana Point through the dusk. We turned onto Highway 74 by Doheny State Beach, motored through San Juan Capistrano, and began to rise into the Santa Anas.
Driving the two-lane up into the uninhabited inland hills, we encountered no other cars. Few side roads appeared in our lights once we passed the sign announcing our entry into the spectacularly misnamed national forest. Several miles later Jay’s turn signal started to flash. We slowed, then negotiated an unmarked turnoff from the asphalt.
After parking our vehicles far enough off the highway to be unobservable by passing cars, we trudged for twenty minutes up a rutted dirt road that threaded through shadowy arroyos and over small ridges. The decision had been made to proceed without lights except as needed. As we climbed, a black jumble of boulders, scrub, and spiked agave stretched in every direction, with low trees in the bottom of the draws. The shoes of the seven of us produced so muted a sound on the dusty track that occasionally I was startled by a clinking noise ahead or beside us. Something had scrabbled away from our presence, or perhaps from a threat posed by more dangerous predators in the darkness.
Very little was said; people mainly concentrated on propelling themselves upward over the uneven ground. Once I heard subdued giggling from where Jay and Pump strode in the lead. Edward stubbed his toe on a rock and uttered a restrained string of curses. Otherwise, the starry night belonged to those who usually inhabited this wilderness.
At last the road curved up out of a gulch, and the outline of a high industrial fence loomed against the sky. Pump and Jay released whoops of delight. The obstacle that blocked our path extended across the mountainside into the blackness. We halted before a gate reinforced with metal bars, securely chained and padlocked. A smaller, person-size door, also padlocked shut, had been incorporated into the gate’s design. Jay swept his flashlight along the stretch of chain-link fence topped with barbed wire either side of the gate, revealing the warning that now confronted us, plus identical notices posted every dozen feet or SO: U.S. GOVERNMENT. ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING. UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY SUBJECT TO SEVERE PENALTIES. ARMED PATROLS.
“Armed patrols,” Willow whispered. Her tone captured perfectly the surge of dread I experienced reading the words.
“Speak up, Willow,” Pump said. “Nobody around but us.”
She pointed at the sign. “What about this?” she whispered again. “Armed patrols? Severe penalties?”
“That’s just to scare you, man,” Pump said.
“It works, as far as I’m concerned,” I admitted. In the light from somebody’s flashlight, Willow, I thought, aimed a grateful glance my way.
A plan that had made some sense in the Bay’s living room, my mind full of delectable smoke, had acquired more threatening associations as I scanned the sign. My status as an accomplice to what could only be considered a break-and-enter appeared more ominous in the black desert night. This was no ordinary B and E, but a B and E with serious federal implications.
“These sites are abandoned,” Jay said. “We know. We mothballed them.”
“The sign doesn’t look like they’re abandoned,” Willow insisted, her voice louder.
“Why would they patrol a sealed-off site?” Pump asked. “The army has other things to do than guard every decommissioned facility. They put up shit like this to spook people from getting too near.”
“Most sites, signs were up even before we finished,” Jay said. “There never were armed guards around.”
“No tracks,” Phil said.
We looked at him.
“Shine your lights on the road,” he suggested. Four beams complied. “See? No tire tracks. If there were patrols, they’d have to enter and leave by this gate.”
We stared at the undisturbed dust. I felt a little less nervous.
“Couldn’t they have hiked up here like us?” Willow asked.
“Nobody’s footprints except ours.”
“Stand clear,” Pump said. He slung his pack off his shoulders, extracted a crowbar, and strode meaningfully toward the gate.
“Just a minute,” Jay said “Hold it!” ordered Edward.
Pump stopped.
“Gloves,” Jay reminded him.
Pump returned to his pack, drew on a pair of work gloves, and advanced toward the fence again.
“We can’t leave evidence,” Jay explained.
“Hold it, Pump,” Edward repeated. “Are we sure we want to do this?”
No one spoke for a moment. Then Remi announced in his take-charge voice: “Bet your ass we do.”
For a few seconds, on the rock-strewn slopes of Sitton Peak in the Santa Ana Mountains, Remi’s curt declaration in favour of breaking into the fenced-off area was met with silence. Before anybody resumed discussion of the subject, though, Pump inserted his crowbar into the padlock that fastened the door-size opening. A grating, rasping noise echoed loudly around the hills. Pump kicked the broken padlock aside from where it had fallen and swung the portal wide. “Last one in is a rotten egg.” He gestured toward the gap as if to conduct us across.
We glanced at one another. Nobody seemed inclined to shift. Then Jay strode past Pump, crossed over the threshold, and faced us from the other side. “Didn’t we agree we’d do a recon? Are you wimps chickening out?”
Nobody answered.
Pump returned the crowbar and gloves to his pack, shrugged into the straps, and marched through the opening in the gate to join Jay. “Looks like you and I have to do this alone, buddy.”
“Nobody’s around for miles,” Jay stressed to us. “They seal these sites and forget them. Maybe once a year somebody comes by. But like Phil said — no tracks. And they aren’t going to do an annual inspection in the middle of the night.”
“Pay no attention to these weenies,” Pump said. “Let’s hit it, man.”
“Even if by some miracle we got busted,” Jay continued, “we’ll simply say we were out here partying, saw the gate ajar, and decided