60horsepowerprophet

After the disappointment of day two’s failed summit combined with the awful, full body fatigue gnawing violently at our limbs and lungs, it was decided that day three would be spent exploring Aspen. There’s a little town 8 miles outside of Aspen called Woody Creek. Lots of celebrities live there. Most importantly, though, Woody Creek, CO was the home of one Hunter S. Thompson since the early 1970s.
Getting to Aspen was no easy feet. It lies on the other side of the range that Riley and I had come to climb.

Independence Pass is one of the most ruthless major mountain roads in the U.S. It ascends from Leadville, CO. (some 10,xxx feet), to a summit of nearly 13,xxx feet and then back down into Aspen, some 9,xxx feet. The climbs are rough, the turns are sharp and the descents are terrifying. The country is among the best I’ve encountered from behind the wheel in this great nation. Hulking, blue mountains shoot up from thick, coniferous timberlines like a mongrel’s baby teeth from a Picasso nightmare. Between the peaks are wondrous, lush alpine valleys coated in a thick dusting of yellow, purple, blue and white wildflowers. Creeks shoot down valleys past long abandoned gold rush settlements collapsing into obscurity with mine shafts and deerskin jackets. There are no guardrails on the road at all which is a bit unnerving on the way up and pants-shitting terrifying on the way down. The road narrows with little to no warning at all and many overzealous, Gucci trophy wives turned reluctant Dior soccer moms blaze the trail on cellular telephones in large, black luxury SUVs. We took the bastard down in a 44-year old Volkswagen equipped with “Why the fuck aren’t you stopping yet!” brakes, an engine of unknown miles suffering near pulmonary failure from lack of oxygen, the handling of a drunken mule cart operation and a weeks worth of camping gear for two men. In the words of the hippie in the Toyota 4Runner, “That’s wicked, man, wicked!”

Aspen. I can see why so many spend so much to live here. The valley this town resides in is incredible, reminiscent of the southern European Alps. The town, though, was so loaded with people that it was difficult to get a good feel of the place. And the prices were largely ridiculous. It took nearly 2 hours of meandering to find a dining establishment offering anything under $15 a plate.
There was some time spent in an outdoor gear store which netted me a cheap pair of rain pants that I hope I never have to use and I wish that I had had one day prior.

The highlight of the excursion for me was Woody Creek. A small community of cabins and ranches outside of Aspen populated by ex-hippies, celebrities, corporate drug pushers and quite a few generally good people. The “heavily fortified” Thompson compound, Owl Farm, was not hard to find. Hunter’s place was only a few miles from the Woody Creek Tavern, good for him and the tavern, bad for the stiff neighbors. It’s simple. But if you want to find it you’ve got to do it yourself. I’ll tell you this much, look for the iron turkeys.

It’s strange to visit the home of your hero/idol figure after his death. Signs of his personality are still there: metal sculptures of bats, homemade shooting targets, a familiar looking cabin. Something vital is missing, though. There are no staccato explosions, mirthful blood curdling screams, hazes of substances or mumbled swears. I’m still not sure how I felt about being there. It was like there was something missing from the air, an invisible hole that the minds eye could only glimpse in the recollection of a day-old dream. The weird, prophetic vibrations were gone. And anyone who thinks for one moment that they can resurrect them, that they can amplify the echoes of the tiny ebbs still reverberating in the mountains is a stone cold fool. Sometimes the world doesn’t truly know what it’s lost until it’s staring into the chasm left behind.

The beer at the Woody Creek Tavern was cold and hoppy and the atmosphere was a lazy, drifting, quick witted happiness. Riley and I sat at the end of the bar and glanced around the room at photographs of the man himself, crude drawings of random patrons and splattered Ralph Stedman cartoons. The walls were covered with REAL objects. Everything linked to a particular moment in time bursting with individual energy. There are no old oil cans, no broken down banjos, no snow-shoes hanging at odd angles on the wall attempting to confuse you into the Surf n’ Turf special or the Apple-tini. The owner (I presume) of the establishment was working the bar that day.

—

“Will you have another?”

“Why not.”

“How about ‘yes?’ ‘Why not’ should be saved for your 22nd or 23rd.”

“Yes, yes. It should be saved.”

My mug is refilled with Flying Dog Pale Ale and just as quickly it is drained.

“We’re from Iowa, here on a Pilgrimage to H.S.T. country. Can I see some of those t-shirts?”

“Sure, I’ll pull out this box of mediums; you don’t look like you need a big one.”

“Yeah, I’m a skinny bastard.”

“Nah, you’re just medium… ya skinny bastard.”

I select and pay.

“Hold on.”

“Yeah?”

“Here, have one for the road on Hunter.”

I gulp the beer down in gluttonous homage. I feel warm inside.

—

Having a bit of a drunk on made selecting my mood easier upon pulling the Bus out of the Tavern parking lot and back onto the Colorado highway.

On the way out of town Riley, the driver at this point by his own wise decision, realized we needed to fill up before heading back over the pass. So, we turned around. And as we pulled through the city limits of Aspen I saw it, the Red Shark. The Red Shark. Hunter’s son, Juan behind the wheel and Hunter’s widow, Anita in the passenger seat. Writing this now it seems like an anecdote from a dream. It isn’t.

—

The white Chevy Silverado cruised slowly out of town with two adult black labs pacing in the bed, trying to find ideal wind conditions for that wonderful, even ear flop. I wasn’t paying attention.

“Holy shit! Those dogs!”

“What? Are they—”

“Doing it!”

Exhibitionist hounds, I tell you. It didn’t last long but it was performed with the sort of skill that says this sort of thing has been done before. The mounted lay down in the bed of the truck, not to be seen again for some time. The mount-er scanned the scene, smiling.

More later.

-A