"The Road to Woodstock": The Stories Behind Rock History : Rolling Stone

Finding Yasgur's Farm

A few miles from Elliot's, we drove along 17B through magnificent farmlands — it's absolutely beautiful farm country with open fields everywhere. We took a right turn off 17B onto Hurd Road. About a quarter mile up, we broached the top of a hill and there it was.

"STOP THE CAR!" I shouted, barely able to believe my eyes. It was the field of my dreams — what I had hoped for from the first. It was not lost on me that we had left Wallkill to arrive in Bethel — "the House of God." I left the car and walked into this perfect green bowl. There at its base was a rise just waiting for our stage. The others joined me. Mel, Ticia, and I exchanged looks of wonder. "Who does all this land belong to?" I asked Abraham.

"Max Yasgur," he replied. "He's the biggest dairy farmer in the county. He owns ten farms, and two thousand acres. I can call him and see if he's interested in renting to you."

"Yes, let's do that," I said. I had to work hard at staying calm. I didn't want to appear too excited to this guy. We passed a sign that said HAPPY AVENUE, and drove until we got to a pay phone and Abraham reached Max. We drove on to his home — a simple white farmhouse — and met Miriam and Max Yasgur, a handsome couple in their late forties.

"These people are interested in renting some of your land, Max, to put on a music festival," Abraham explained.

Max had a sharply intelligent face and looked me in the eye. "You're the people who lost your site in Wallkill, aren't you?" I was preparing for the worst when he added, "I think that you young folks were done a grave injustice over there. Yes, I'll show you my land — we might be able to strike a deal for your music fair."

Max got in the car with us and Morris told him we'd seen the field off of Hurd Road and would like to start there. As we drove, Max pointed out some of the land he owned. My heart was beating so fast I hoped no one could hear it. We arrived back at the field and I told Ticia and Mel to wait in the car and keep Morris occupied while Max and I took a walk into what had become home in my mind.

"Max, can we talk about this field?" I asked. "This is the perfect place for us. It's the right size and shape and has great sight lines and great vibes." Something about the way Max carried himself told me to be completely candid with him: "It feels like we're meant to be here." I wanted to seal the deal right there in the field. We walked over the rise above the bowl.

"How much land would you say you'd need?" he asked.

"Well, in addition to this field and whatever you have surrounding it, we need another six hundred acres, including land for camping and parking," I told him.

"I still have a crop of alfalfa growing here and crops in several other fields as well," Max said. "How soon do you think you'd need them?"

"Would now be too soon?" I asked, with a smile.

Max laughed and pulled a pencil from the protector in his shirt pocket. He wet the tip of the pencil with his tongue and started to scribble numbers on a pad. A sharp guy, he figured how much he was going to lose in his crop and how much it would cost him to reseed the field. When he came up with a number for the bowl, it seemed a fair price and I said yes immediately. We agreed that he would calculate the other fields in much the same manner, taking into consideration whether or not he could harvest crops before we needed to prepare the ground. It was going to be a hefty sum, but I knew that this land was our Woodstock — and Max was our savior.

NEXT: Landing Hendrix

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