September 22, 2005 Issue

Hunter S. Thompson wasn’t exactly laid to rest on August 20th. His memorial service, held near his beloved Woody Creek, Colo. compound was as spectacular as his life. A serene, peaceful sendoff was not in order for Thompson.

Thompson and his long-time collaborator, artist Ralph Steadman, had planned his farewell while in London nearly 30 years ago. It was to include a massive dagger-like tower (three feet taller than the Statue of Liberty) with the Gonzo symbol—a clinched fist with two thumbs holding a bright red peyote button. Thompson’s ashes, embedded in firework canisters, would be fired from the fist. And so it was.

Accompanied by a steadily rising roar provided by a band of kimono clad Japanese drummers, the ashes were blown throughout the night sky of Woody Creek at 8:45 p.m. on a beautiful evening. An eclectic mix of actors, musicians, artists, writers, and politicians attended the ceremony. The ridge above the canyon was lined with hundreds of his fans and admirers from around the world. The production was financed—at an estimated cost of $2.5 million—by Johnny Depp, who played Thompson’s alter ego,
Raoul Duke in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.

The book the movie was based on followed Thompson’s first recognized effort, Hell’s Angels. It also set the tone for Thompson’s writings and his life. Its first paragraph was classic Thompson: “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like ‘I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive…’ And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: ‘Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?’”

And take hold they did. Drugs and alcohol along with humor and insight fueled everything Thompson wrote. An article for Scanlon’s on the Kentucky Derby in the late 1960s is credited as jump-starting the style that Thompson created—gonzo journalism.

Working with Ralph Steadman, a virtually unknown artist from England, Thompson had squandered an advance from the magazine on drugs. As the deadline for his article approached, and with no hope of finishing the piece, Thompson filed only the notes he had made during his stay in Louisville. His garbled, rambling, and bizarre musings, accompanied by Steadman’s equally crazed line drawings, were sent to the magazine. Scanlon’s printed what Thompson had given them. Gonzo journalism was born.

The time-honored tradition of a journalist maintaining impartiality and distance from his subject had been terribly violated. Much of Thompson’s work appeared in Rolling Stone magazine, a perfect medium for his writings on politics, music, and modern-day phenomenon. During his career the stories he covered oftentimes became secondary to his experiences. Instead of remaining apart from the subject, he became the subject and the story revolved around his brilliant, but addled perceptions.

Hunter Thompson covered everything from Super Bowls to presidential elections. His appetite for mind-altering substances was equaled only by his amazing lucidity in finding the crux of a story. He was almost alone in his prediction Jimmy Carter would one day be president. He admired Carter after hearing him deliver a May Day speech in Athens, Ga. He had taped the speech, and for nearly three decades would replay it for anyone who would listen.

Thompson’s suicide, at the age of 67, was brought on by physical infirmities and by a deep depression after the re-election of President Bush. He left a short note titled “Football Season is Over.” He was an unapologetic, heavy drinker and drug user right until the end. It was as if he had been digging a hole for his entire life— sometimes at a steady pace— and sometimes franticly. He was never able, or willing, to put down the shovel.

He had been a resident of Woody Creek, just down valley from Aspen, for more than 30 years. He had always felt that no matter where he was, or how crazed things got, if he could just get back to his compound and its pastoral setting, he would be all right. The Woody Creek Tavern, Thompson’s local bar, had to ban him for a short time after he set off a smoke bomb in the restaurant. He also had a long neglected bar tab. The tavern allowed him back only after he wrote a letter promising to never again set off a bomb on the premises. On a wall behind the bar is written Thompson’s prescription for life: “It’s still not weird enough for me.”

Thompson moved to the Aspen area before it became a refuge first for millionaires, and now for billionaires. His brazen attitude and spirit have had as much effect on the spirit of the place as any of the celebrities who gather there. In the early 1970s he playfully ran for sheriff of Pitkin County. Running on the “Freak Power” ticket, Thompson’s platform included jack-hammering the streets of Aspen and returning them to their original dirt roads and allowing the residents to “do mescaline at any time of the day or night that seemed right.” He narrowly lost the election.

It may never have gotten weird enough for Thompson during his lifetime; but his memorial service should have met his standard for strangeness. For days surrounding the event, the Woody Creek Tavern, became the official gathering spot for fans and followers. There were impromptu musical groups, robots, Johnny Depp look-a-likes, journalists of every ilk, and one night while we ate at the bar, my son Chatham sat next to an out of place and very depressed Ken Lay, the former head of Enron.

Douglas Brinkley, Thompson’s biographer wrote a piece in Rolling Stone shortly after his suicide. He put Thompson’s status in the Aspen community in perspective in the March 10th issue.

“Through the tears and shrieks and sadness, however, a prevailing sentiment rose to the forefront. It was that Hunter, in death, like in life, Walked Tall. In a world where homogenization and gentrification are the altars we worship on, Hunter the individualist shined through like a ray of pure light. He walked the tundra full of wild humor and constant high jinks. His irrepressible spirit will haunt the hills around Aspen like the rascal Pancho Villa does along the Rio Grande. And on cool evenings, when dark clouds drift on the Elk Mountains, and a roar of thunder is heard, those who love him will look up and smile. And all we’ll say is “Bravo.”

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