**** I set off from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, in July 2011...and ended up in Aspen, Colorado, in February 2012. Along the way, I visited 28 states, three countries, dozens of national parks, hundreds of cities and towns, and countless friends and strangers. Why? Why not? In fact, I lost my job of seven years when Berkshire Living, the regional magazine I helped launch, folded. Then my apartment building burned down while I was in Miami for the weekend. A breakup and a stolen bicycle figured in shortly thereafter. Wouldn't you hit the road, too? Enjoy my virtual scrapbook of anecdotes and eye candy from a freewheeling, cross-country, cross-cultural odyssey--past, present, and future.Amanda Rae Busch
amandaraewashere@gmail.com
Hunter S. Thompson, Animals, Whores & Dialogue (2010)
[Coloring Is for Kids, Snowmass, Colorado, March 12, 2012]
Gonzo Shrine in a Snowmass Glade
Fact: shredding the slopes in search of fresh pow is a mission best shared with a buddy. Also, I never would have found this forest shrine to Dr. Gonzo, tucked deep into a pine glade on Snowmass Mountain, if I’d been by my lonesome. (And I certainly would not have been able to take this photo without assistance.)
It started with a casual challenge:
“Hey, wanna go find the Shrine to Hunter S. Thompson?”
“Um…yeah!”
The quest began. It wasn’t much of a quest, though, since my pal, a seasoned Snowmasshole, knew the location: midway off of the aptly named Gunner’s Way trail. (Aspen Skiing Company, which owns the four local mountains, was founded by a member of the Tenth Mountain Division after World War II.)
Partway down the trail, we slowed to a snail’s pace, scanning the edges for telltale tracks. We saw them, and slipped beneath the frosty canopy….
Following a short ride through a dense thicket, at the base of a steep drop, we found it: Fear and Loathing…in the Colorado wilderness.
This Week’s Random-Funny Photos
![“It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened. I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real.” —The Rum Diary
I might say the same about Woody Creek Tavern, which I visited yesterday afternoon on my way out of Aspen, Colorado.
Dr. Thompson himself would probably bark, “Gibberish!,” from the sky, but I stand my ground: it was a surreal experience (and I felt undeservedly special there)…yet it was oddly comforting at the same time.
I perched myself on a bench in the corner of the dimly lit watering hole; it was tufted with cheetah-print fabric. Eyes wide, I scanned the photos, magazine clippings, stickers, and nostalgia tacked to every inch of wall space; the spiderwebs of multi-colored lights and Mardi Gras beads from the pressed-tin ceiling; the bull skulls and straw fedoras; the sparkling disco ball churning lazily overhead.
When the waitress approached to take my order I admitted that I was so overwhelmed with the scene that I hadn’t even looked at the menu. No problem, she said, relax and enjoy.
(I settled on fish tacos, since I had heard that the place served excellent Mexican. It’s true.)
Later, during one of our sporadic conversation about life changes, the bartender, Tim, stopped me mid-sentence.
“You should move here. You should WORK here,” he enthused. “I don’t know, I’m not psychic or anything, but I have a good feeling about this…”
He snapped some photos (top) for the wall. We talked about Aspen, and how different this place was from the glitz and glamour just ten miles away. He pulled up a chair so as to whisper in close.
“The people who come in here—you’d be amazed,” he said. “Like that guy with the cowboy hat…”
“The one sitting at the bar?” I asked.
“Yeah. He wrote the song ‘Wipe Out.’ He still gets his check every month…comes in here all the time with his girlfriend. Just hangs out at the bar…”
And then, Tim’s voice so low I could barely hear him: “Have you heard of the Mall of America?”
“Mall of America—what’s that?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“That woman over there,” he said, tilting his head toward the table adjacent, “her family owns it.”
Huh! “Well,” I said, “maybe that goes to show that on a basic human level it doesn’t matter how much money you have; good people will always be innately attracted to places that are comfortable and free of bullshit.”
“Yeah, I think that’s it,” he agreed.
Knowing that I was hitting the road soon, Tim mixed up a margarita-in-a-waterbottle—the tavern sits next to world-class bike trails, he explained—for me to enjoy once I arrived at my campsite later that night. I put it on ice.
“Come back after California!” Tim said, grinning, as I left. “Our season doesn’t even get going until December…”
I might.
[Woody Creek, September 12, 2011]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrh4kx51gX1qloi1ho1_1280.jpg)
“It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened. I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real.” —The Rum Diary
I might say the same about Woody Creek Tavern, which I visited yesterday afternoon on my way out of Aspen, Colorado.
Dr. Thompson himself would probably bark, “Gibberish!,” from the sky, but I stand my ground: it was a surreal experience (and I felt undeservedly special there)…yet it was oddly comforting at the same time.
I perched myself on a bench in the corner of the dimly lit watering hole; it was tufted with cheetah-print fabric. Eyes wide, I scanned the photos, magazine clippings, stickers, and nostalgia tacked to every inch of wall space; the spiderwebs of multi-colored lights and Mardi Gras beads from the pressed-tin ceiling; the bull skulls and straw fedoras; the sparkling disco ball churning lazily overhead.
When the waitress approached to take my order I admitted that I was so overwhelmed with the scene that I hadn’t even looked at the menu. No problem, she said, relax and enjoy.
(I settled on fish tacos, since I had heard that the place served excellent Mexican. It’s true.)
Later, during one of our sporadic conversation about life changes, the bartender, Tim, stopped me mid-sentence.
“You should move here. You should WORK here,” he enthused. “I don’t know, I’m not psychic or anything, but I have a good feeling about this…”
He snapped some photos (top) for the wall. We talked about Aspen, and how different this place was from the glitz and glamour just ten miles away. He pulled up a chair so as to whisper in close.
“The people who come in here—you’d be amazed,” he said. “Like that guy with the cowboy hat…”
“The one sitting at the bar?” I asked.
“Yeah. He wrote the song ‘Wipe Out.’ He still gets his check every month…comes in here all the time with his girlfriend. Just hangs out at the bar…”
And then, Tim’s voice so low I could barely hear him: “Have you heard of the Mall of America?”
“Mall of America—what’s that?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“That woman over there,” he said, tilting his head toward the table adjacent, “her family owns it.”
Huh! “Well,” I said, “maybe that goes to show that on a basic human level it doesn’t matter how much money you have; good people will always be innately attracted to places that are comfortable and free of bullshit.”
“Yeah, I think that’s it,” he agreed.
Knowing that I was hitting the road soon, Tim mixed up a margarita-in-a-waterbottle—the tavern sits next to world-class bike trails, he explained—for me to enjoy once I arrived at my campsite later that night. I put it on ice.
“Come back after California!” Tim said, grinning, as I left. “Our season doesn’t even get going until December…”
I might.
[Woody Creek, September 12, 2011]
