In the summer of 1971 my friends John Gilmore, Mark McLaughlin, and Tommie Jordan drove from the South Shore of Boston for a 4th of July holiday in Maine. We first stopped at my grandmother’s cabin on Watchic Pond for a swim and Italian sandwiches. We watched the fireworks over the Presumpscot River and then headed north for Bar Harbor in my 1968 VW Beetle. By the Turnpike it was 3 hours, but we chose the coastal road.
Someplace outside of Bath, the sky shimmered with an unearthly light. John thought we were hallucinating from smoking too much hashish.
“It’s not the hash. It’s the Aurora Borealis.” Mark declared with debatable authority.
“How would you know?” John demanded before sucking on the bong.
“Because I have a Boy Scout merit badge in astronomy.”
We bowed to his greater wisdom and I parked the VW by the side on Route 1. The celestial phenomena sashayed across the sky like iridescent curtains blowing in the wind. The light show lasted about 20 minutes and disappeared like a mirage.
“The Aurora Borealis.” John remarked in awe.
“Wow.” The rest of us said in admiration of nature and we weren’t easily impressed having seen Jimi Hendrix at Boston Garden.
“Better than Jimi?”
“Better than Jimi,” Tommie and Mark replied with nodding heads.
“Except for ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER.” John loved that song and we argued about it the rest of the way to Camden.
Life was good for stoners in the early-70s.
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