OF MOUNTAIN GIRL

Long before she’d ever heard of the Warlocks, Carolyn Adams was on the cutting edge of psychedelic culture, riding with the Merry Pranksters to Millbrook and back. She was born and raised in Poughkeepsie, New York, was kicked out of high school, traveled west with her brother, and met Neal Cassady, who introduced her to Ken Kesey, who put her on the bus. When she got back west, to Haight-Ashbury, she saw and heard Jerry play his guitar and got it right away. This was greatness, Jerry as a person, as an icon, as a musician, the music itself, greatness. Folks that were there remember her standing right in front of the stage, looking just like R. Crumb drew her, beaming up at Jerry, already scheming ways to help support the greatness, to help it grow. She would offer her body to him, of course, but she would also facilitate his life. She’d clean up and cook and do laundry, stuff that Jerry wouldn’t do if she weren’t there, and keep him as healthy as possible. He was a fixer-upper, to put it mildly, living on cigarettes and Twinkies, never even finding the urge to empty the ashtray, which was heaping with butts and overflowing onto the floor. Mountain Girl, one of Kesey’s friends called her that and the name stuck, was the first of the clan to figure out there were cool and uncool drugs. If there was a certain look in someone’s eyes she’d grab him by the shirt, throw him against the wall, and roll up his sleeves to check for needle marks. When Mountain Girl first entered Jerry’s life at the acid test in the Fillmore Auditorium, there were sparks. (As an East Coast kid I’d always thought that the Fillmore Auditorium and the Fillmore West were the same arena, the name change being necessitated by the opening of the Fillmore East in New York. But no. When Bill Graham gave up control of the building known as the Fillmore Auditorium, he moved his operation into the former Carousel—a plush 1930s ballroom, chandeliers, red velour ceiling, owned by the League of Irish Voters—and changed its name to the Fillmore West.) In the house on Ashbury Jerry and Mountain Girl would disappear into Jerry’s room and no one would see them for days. She never had a defined role in the band. They tried putting her on the soundboard for a brief time but she had little ones—one of Kesey’s, two of Jerry’s—to take care of and forgot when to pot up and down on the mikes. That was all right. She’d accomplished her goal. By the time she and Jerry split, he had a whole crew to empty his ashtrays and make sure he ate real food now and again.

Gregg Praetorius remembered that, of the many musical acts he’d worked with, Jerry was the only one who brought along his own stove and cook. That was about 1981, and the cook’s name was Cy Kosis, and he was a culinary arts legend. According to veterans of the road, the one thing that wears down travelers more quickly than anything else is bad food. Cy Kosis saw to it that Jerry ate healthy food every day, and it’s not unimportant to note that the years he cooked for Jerry were also those when Jerry appeared to be in the best shape with his weight under control. Working alongside Cy Kosis for a spell was Phil Guiliano, who expanded the idea and provided food-catering services for large tours such as those of Paul McCartney, Madonna, Eric Clapton, and the Rolling Stones.

Phil’s dad called MG “Mountain Dew,” which she dug—but only when Mr. Lesh was saying it. In the midseventies, she published a book about growing pot outdoors called Primo Plant, still available on Amazon.com. Today she remains on the board of the Rex Foundation, the Further Foundation, the Marijuana Policy Project, and is a former board member of the Women’s Visionary Council. Long after they stopped being a romantic item, a lifetime later it seemed, Jerry and Mountain Girl were married in Oakland. It was in 1981, six years after they’d broken up, wed for tax purposes, but it never seems inappropriate when she’s listed as one of Jerry’s wives. When he needed it most, she was Jerry’s ol’ lady.