Published in Snow magazine, September 2005

Fear and loathing in Aspen

Writer and hellraiser Hunter S Thompson lived in Aspen from 1968 till he blew his brains out in February 2005. His love-hate relationship with the millionaires' winter playground was as complex and wild as his life. William Ham Bevan investigates the Aspen highs and lows of the godfather of Gonzo

WHEN Hunter S Thompson was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot on February 20, celebrities lined up to deliver their tributes; but in truth, Aspen had lost a link to a past that few of its eminent residents cared much to acknowledge during his lifetime. The writer, journalist and hellraiser was the figurehead of all those who despised the transformation of a quiet, liberal mountain community into a gated millionaires’ playground.

When Thompson first began to visit Aspen, it was a winter refuge for many figures from late-Sixties counterculture, such as Jack Nicholson and Bob Rafaelson of Easy Rider, and Glenn Frey and Don Henley of The Eagles. In Thompson’s foreword to Peggy Clifford’s book To Aspen And Back, he wrote of his arrival in the Colorado town: “I first came to Aspen in 1960. I passed through several times and then one time I got stuck. I never intended to live here, and I still don't know why I do, except that I haven't found a better place yet.” But his relationship with the place he chose as home was as complex and ambivalent as any in his extraordinary life.

Thompson became a permanent resident in 1968, when he bought Owl Farm ranch in Woody Creek, 15 miles from Aspen town. Even then, the face of the community was changing, and not to his liking. “The first post-World War II immigrants to Aspen were skiers from the Army's Tenth Mountain Division,” he would write, some 10 years later. “They were sent to Italy to fight, and came back to Aspen to live. Those old soldiers became rich merchants, and they didn't want dirty hippies moving into Aspen and frightening away the big spenders.”

Such deep disgust towards Aspen’s creeping exclusivity and conservatism led Thompson to enter local politics. In 1970, a year after an ill-fated campaign to become mayor, he nearly achieved his goal: an attempt to become sheriff of Pitkin County on a “Freak Power” ticket failed by just four percentage points.

The writer’s manifesto differed markedly from those of his Democrat and Republican rivals. One point demanded that the town “change the name ‘Aspen’, by public referendum, to ‘Fat City’. This would prevent greedheads, land-rapers and other human jackals from capitalising on the name ‘Aspen’.” The manifesto also promised public punishment for dishonest drug dealers – that is, those who sold their wares at an extortionate profit – and perhaps surprisingly, in view of Thompson’s love of firearms, it also demanded that local law officers henceforth perform their duties unarmed.

After this, Thompson’s only encounters with the law were at its sharp end. Yet for the most part, his frequently outrageous behaviour was indulged – particularly in the bars he frequented, such as the J-Bar in the Hotel Jerome and his local, the Woody Creek Tavern. Visiting the writer in the latter, one British journalist noticed staff retreating to the other end of the bar as soon as they had served Thompson’s drinks. This, it turned out, was due to an incident the week before in which he had tested out some explosives in the saloon, and blown up the pool table.

In later years, Thompson became more of a recluse at Owl Farm. He discouraged visitors by portraying the 127-acre ranch wherever possible as a Waco-like fortified compound. Successive signs along the driveway reading “Danger Zone” and “Guns in Constant Use” warned away literary pilgrims and lawmen alike. Holed up in his homestead, he kept nocturnal habits – breakfasting at 6pm each day, by one account, on orange juice, coffee, scotch, cigarettes, marijuana and cocaine.
Nevertheless, there were some episodes that local cops couldn’t just ignore.

Most concerned one or both of Thompson’s main fascinations, drugs and firearms. The Nineties saw him beat sexual assault and narcotics charges that would most likely have entailed jail time, after allegations from a female visitor to the ranch. A drink-driving rap followed in 1996, and in 2000, Thompson shot and wounded his assistant, Deborah Fuller, after apparently mistaking her for a bear – an explanation of events that she confirms.

Despite this, one of Thompson’s best friends in Aspen was the incumbent sheriff of Pitkin County, Bob Braudis, who would often prop up the bar with him at the Woody Creek Tavern. Yet more surprising, given the squeamishness of American federal politics, was John Kerry’s visit to Aspen on the 2004 campaign trail. The presidential candidate designated Thompson his official host, and gave him a prominent place in his motorcade through the town. In a subsequent speech, Kerry deadpanned that he was considering making Thompson his choice for vice-president.

Hunter S Thompson’s final years saw him become all the more disillusioned about Aspen. In 1980, he had written: “You can't create a valley for the rich and then expect to live in peace with them. The rich are monsters.” Twenty-four years later, he was convinced all his fears had come to pass. He told a reporter: "It's all networking, corporate money and day-glo fur. It's fat-cat money – and I hate the swine."

These sentiments were honoured, after Thompson’s suicide, in the guest list for his final send-off – an event that took place after much preparation at Woody Creek on August 20. Some of his neighbours from nearby working ranches were invited, taking their places beside luminaries that included Sean Penn, Bill Murray, and Johnny Depp, who bankrolled the wake to the tune of $2million.

Pointedly missing from the roll of invitations, though, were any of the local bigwigs who had used their fortunes to settle in Aspen – now among the most expensive real-estate in America. Sheriff Bob Braudis said of his late friend: “Frankly, he was disgusted by all the trophy homes where there used to be forest.”

At the climax of the ceremony, the writer’s ashes were shot into the sky from a 153-foot cannon, topped with his adopted symbol of a six-fingered red fist. As they watched the pyrotechnic shells explode above the valley, many of Thompson’s “fat cats” and “swine” must have felt relief that their fiercest detractor was looking down on them for the last time.