Time almost Interviewed Hunter S. Thompson (P.4 of 4)

 

My friend owns a rugged 4-wheel drive, designed to travel through ponds and climb rugged terrain. When I was just enjoying the winding, flat paved roads, he veered off on a dirt path, headed to an unknown direction. When I asked him where we were going, he remained silent until we reached the bottom of a steep mountain.

“You're not serious, man?” I asked as I looked up the hill, not able to see the summit.

“Hold on Craig.”

He immediately down-shifted and punched the accelerator. We seemed to be almost vertical, flush with the mountain. For a second, I thought the truck would tip over backward, crushing the roof of the cab and our bodies. He continued to change gears, pushing on the gas and steering hard to avoid large rocks in our path. After around ten minutes, we leveled off on the mountain's summit. He turned the engine off, and through the windshield, is the greatest expansive view of the Rocky Mountains and the flatlands of metropolitan Denver I had ever seen!

“Jesus, man. You can certainly drive this thing.” I said.

He smiled, reaching in his pocket, retrieving a small pipe, and filled it with Denver's finest.

“Here, have some, it's good.” he said.

“No man, I want to be straight if we run into Hunter Thompson.” I said.

“Who is this guy, anyway?” he asked.

Reaching in the back seat for my bag, I found a copy of Thompson's, The Rum Diary. Thumbing, through its pages, found a quote:

“Like most others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles - a restless idealism on the one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other - that kept me going.”

“Sounds like you, man.” he said.

“No, hardly, but when I first read his book, Hell's Angels, I was hooked. “

“Okay, Craig. Going down the mountain is a little harder than going up.”

We reached the bottom without incident and found our way to the main highway. Before long, we were traveling down Aspen's main drag. I felt a tiny disappointed because, though it wasn't ski season, it was Independence Day and the streets were crawling with tourists.

We finally found the bar where Thompson frequented, the Woody Creek Tavern. Once pulling into the small parking lot, there wasn't a parking space to be found. All except the handicapped space at the front door. My friend pulled in and turned off the engine. I was just about to say something when he reached behind him and pulled out a Handicap pass for the elderly. Placing it around his rear-view mirror, he said, “It helps when you work for the government.”

We entered the bar, and it was packed. I approached the bar and ordered a couple of Coors Light. My old friend hated crowded places, so I knew it was only a matter of time before he wanted to leave. I looked around the place, particularly in the dark corners of the pub, and couldn't find anyone that matched Thompson's appearance. I knew he would stand out because this was his drinking hole, and he would be holding court.

I caught the bartender's attention. “Can I ask if Hunter Thompson has been in here today?”

The bearded man looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Who wants to know?”

“I'm a writer from Australia, and wanted to ask him a few questions for an article I have in mind.”

“How do I know you're from Australia? You don't have an accent!” he said.

I pulled out my Victorian Driver's Licence. He looked at it and smiled. “Hey man, can I ask you? Do Australian women really sunbathe topless on your beaches?”

Smiling, I somehow expected this question because I've been asked it before.

“Yes, they certainly do.”

“Then what in the hell are you doing here!?” he burst out laughing.

“ Visiting and looking for Thompson?”

A woman at the end of the bar was hailing him for another drink. He served her and walked back to my end.

“Sorry man. Thompson hasn't been in here for over a week. He's out of town, doing some shit. That's what I've heard.” he said.

My heart dropped. In my mind, the voice repeated, “It's all timing. It's all timing...”

My a friend heard this, and that was his cue to get the hell out of this crowded bar.

I told him to stop at a liquor store to grab a six-pack. On the way home, I drowned my disappointment, but in the end, my friend's entire family had gathered. We barbecued and played Volleyball. It was a great time had by all, especially my son.

That night, I woke to him crying in the next room. “What's wrong, Sam?”

I don't want to leave Denver, but I love Melbourne. I wish I could put the two together.” he said through his little boy tears.

At that moment, I understood exactly what he was trying to communicate. Home is where the heart is, and sometimes, the heart can be in two places at once.

This would be the last time I would see my friend again. He passed away some years later under circumstances that I care not to relate. Let's just say, I miss him.

Our trip back to Melbourne reflected the soon to become “sign of the times.” At every port, I was searched and interrogated like a terrorist, an enemy of the state.

When I look back at this excursion, I think of Hunter S. Thompson. I think about this quote:

“It gave me a strange feeling, and the rest of that night I didn’t say much, but merely sat there and drank, trying to decide if I was getting older and wiser, or just plain old.”