Dr. Hunter S. Thompson Lives On At The Woody Creek Tavern

"The world is still a weird place, despite my efforts to make clear and perfect sense of it". Hunter S. Thompson

There are but a few individuals in the long course of human history and popular culture who need little introduction, and no doubt this fellow called Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was one of those. Likewise, few indomitable souls burned more brightly, or crossed the boundaries of living legend so crazily, only to grow even more incandescent in death.

Born in 1937 in Louisville, Kentucky, Wikipedia defines the man as an american journalist and author, and the founder of the Gonzo Journalism movement.

Well, as many of you know, Wikipedia can be a master of understatement. Gonzo Journalism, for instance, put the "me" and the "personal" into the act of reporting in ways that had never been seen before. I would say that it merely changed the very axis and rotational spin of the earth. But then again, maybe that's just me. I have often thought that Thompson's work paved the way for our modern day "selfie culture" too, though I would argue that this little point, if true, may not necessarily be a good thing.

Yet, much too much has been written about that and his effects on the social fabric of the world to fully summarize it here.

Many of you know him through his novel "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream", and the film starring Johnny Depp to follow. Some of us know H.S.T in some other ways too, and suffice it to say that his personality may be too big for any easily defined description. His life was simply too large, too raw, fierce and unbound, to be so easily contained.

I did not know him in any real way, though I did meet him once, however briefly. But I certainly knew of him. We all did, that is anyone who lived and worked around Aspen, and Woody Creek, Colorado. I passed his house quite often, and I like many never missed an opportunity to try and get a look at what he was up to on any particular hour.

Back in the day, to be called "a local", and a "woody creature"was a wild and furry badge of honor, and we easily identified with this legendary iconoclast. He was one of us, and we, one of him, whether we readily admitted it or not. He was the cure for what ailed you, in our otherwise normal "worker bee" world amongst the mega-mansions. Hunter was our own private rapscallion, the unknown force in the unpredictable possibilities of our day, and that unmistakable glint in the eye of incorrigable characters everywhere.

We all had our Thompson stories too, which we passed around in hushed tones of awe.

You were truly anointed if you could say that you had a drink with him at the Woody Creek Tavern, his favorite watering hole. If not, you could only rely on other periphreal experiences.

I remember the day, for example, that I had just driven by the Woody Creek Tavern the time that Hunter set off a smoke bomb in the bathroom, and then watched as the patrons evacuated to safer environments. We had a good laugh about that one, as did he. As most of you know, he surely did love his gunpowder and pyrotechnics.

At one time I lived within rifle range of his property, and I could not help but listen for the gunfire that he was so famous for, mostly for reasons of self preservation. I remember too the night he took a late night dip in a friend's indoor pool, and then was gone like smoke on the wind while I slept just yards away and never knew it. He was, after all, a night owl, according to his mother, and perhaps that is why he named his house and property - Owl Farm.

Of course, Hunter's charm held sway in other circles too. He once mounted an unsuccessful campaign for the Sheriff of Pitkin County, which further endeared him to his legion of followers. Because, or in spite of it, it was well known that he maintained a certain level of friendship among local law enforcement.

Wink! Wink! Nod!

I met him personally one warm summer night while on a security detail at an outdoor concert. A strange though easily recognizable odor greeted me as he rolled down the window of his one car entourage, complete with Sheriff's escort. Hunter was driving too, which I guess did not surprise me, though it should have, considering his choice of pilot car.

He did not say much as I escorted him to his backstage seating right behind Bob Dylan, with deputy sheriff in tow. I suspected that he could not have said much even if he wanted too, given his state of self medication. But then again, you don't have to say much when you have friends in the right places.

Looking back, I don't condone the drug-addled lifestyle that he imbued, nor much of the idiocrity that he was so famous for. But I do support and defend his right to live the life that he chose, addled or not. Who am I, a mere mortal, to say otherwise?

Drugs and alcohol aside, his essence was as feral and uncharted as any grizzly or howling wolf that once roamed the perimeters of his Rocky Mountain home. I have no doubt that his was a life lived among the apparitions found moving in the corners of one's vision, and that he left this world to greet them long before his physical body passed on.

His ashes were exploded from the barrel of a cannon too, courtesy of Johnny Depp, but then, that's another story, for another time.

We shall miss you, good doctor, much more than you will ever know...

Here are a few photographs from my recent visit to Woody Creek Tavern, for a burger and a beer, and a little doctor time, for old times sake...

By Michael Patrick McCarty

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Active Member Outdoor Writers Association of America

Recommended Reading:

The Doctor Is In. A Personalized and Rare Autographed Copy From My Personal Collection

*Photograph of Hunter S. Thompson shooting a handgun from The Independent. All other photographs by Michael Patrick McCarty