I first met Hunter S. Thompson 10 years ago at a tiny watering hole that no longer exists in Aspen called The Howling Wolf. At the time I was a cub columnist at the local paper who’d recently run for mayor in a hotly contested election. Truth be told, most of the heat was generated by the other two, more legitimate candidates … I was in the mix, it seemed, primarily for comic relief. But Thompson, as he would later confess, saw something in me that I certainly didn’t know existed at the time, and when he led the charge to defeat a controversial ballot initiative designed to subvert Aspen’s long-standing growth-control measures, the Good Doctor enlisted my help, among others, to rally the youth vote.
We won the election, and in the course of doing so forged a tumultuous, intermittently interrupted friendship that I’m now remembering yielded numerous head-busting hangovers, a few knock-down drag-out brawls out at Owl Farm, his fortified compound in Woody Creek, and — on one particularly harrowing evening — a close encounter with the business end of one of Hunter’s pistols.
Hunter was famously fond of his guns, and this past Sunday afternoon he used one of them to take his own life. What prompted him to pull the trigger is, at this writing, a mystery to me. As far as I can tell from the early reports he didn’t leave a note, despite his oft-repeated belief that confession is good for the soul. He’d had some health problems in recent years, and was as volatile a human being as they come. But suicide? Hunter? It’s hard to believe all the fear and loathing in the world could ever break the spirit of Gonzo.
As I sit here now a day after hearing the awful news, I realize that this is the only time I’ve ever been able to write something about HST without worrying how he’d react to it. The man was fiercely protective of his image and privacy, and anybody fortunate enough to be invited into his circle of friends knew that whatever happened at Owl Farm, stayed at Owl Farm. But there’s this one memory I have that I think is appropriate to recount here.
A few days prior to the aforementioned election, we hosted a voter registration rally at a nightclub followed by a wild party at the Wolf. Unbeknownst to me — until it was far too late — Hunter had designated me his designated driver. When I informed him that copious amounts of bourbon and assorted other chemicals had rendered me unable to fulfill that duty, he gave me an expletive-filled earful, then set out on his own into the night.
“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” — From by Hunter S. Thompson
“Every now and then you run up on one of those days when everything’s in vain … a stone bummer from start to finish; and if you know what’s good for you, on days like these you sort of hunker down in a safe corner and watch. Maybe think a bit. Lay back on a cheap wooden chair, screened off from the traffic, and shrewdly rip the poptops out of five or eight Budweisers …”
I arrived home at around 6 a.m. that morning, and there was a message left a half-hour earlier by Hunter on the answering machine. He’d been busted by the cops for driving under the influence, and was certain he and everyone associated with him was being targeted for political purposes. He wanted me to warn our crew to watch their asses. Again, it was 6 a.m.
“Stay off the streets, for chrissakes,” he said in that distinctive mumble of his. “If we’re not careful they’ll kill us all.” They didn’t — kill us, that is — and after a highly publicized trial months later, Hunter beat the DUI wrap. At a post-courthouse victory celebration, I apologized yet again for my role in the whole ordeal and told Hunter I was glad he’d avoided a jail term that might have derailed our righteous movement.
“Nonsense, bubba,” he said, or something to that effect. “Nothing can stop this train.”
I believed him with all my heart. Still do. I’m just sad as all hell that our brilliant, mad conductor decided it was time for him to get off.
Mahalo, Doc. We’re all going to miss you.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on February 25, 2005. Read the original PDF.