Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson (HST) lived in Woody Creek from the mid-1960s until his self-inflicted death there in 2005. Over the years, scores of locals interacted with the good doctor. Jesse Steindler told a few stories to authors Michael Cleverly and the late Bob Braudis for their excellent book “Kitchen Readings: Untold Stories of Hunter S. Thompson.”

Steindler was manager of the Flying Dog Ranch, three miles past Thompson’s Owl Farm cabin on Woody Creek Road. Thompson had lived there for years before Steindler came on the scene. Like it or not, he quickly became Thompson’s go-to guy whenever troubles arose at Owl Farm. For example, one Christmas morning at 1am, Steindler got a call from HST’s assistant who yelled, “There’s a mountain lion in the house.” Long story short: Steindler appeared with a 30-30 rifle. The mountain lion turned out to be a bobcat in the peacock cage, who escaped the cage, only to leap through an open cabin window. 

“Now there really was a wildcat in the house,” the book says. Steindler ended up shooting the agitated beast. The bullet went through the wildcat and lodged in the cabin’s back wall. Thompson never patched the hole. “He liked having stuff around to remind him of the good times,” the book relates.

It’s unclear from the book when Thompson lost his go-to guy, but it was no doubt sometime after HST took his girls for a high-speed ride in his red convertible. Upon their return from the Glenwood Springs’ McDonald’s, one girl exclaimed to her parents, “Gee, I’ve never driven so fast in a car. I thought [name omitted here] was going to blow right out of the back seat!”

Personal encounters

My first encounter with HST was long distance in 1974. I was a student at the University of Oklahoma and thought it would be a great idea to get him to speak on campus. So, I wrote him a gonzo-ish letter, saying, among other things, that he could attend the OU/Nebraska football game and watch the Selmon brothers rip out the Nebraska quarterback’s lungs at midfield. I included a self-addressed stamped envelope, addressed the letter to “Hunter Thompson, Woody Creek, Colorado, 81656” and sent it. 

A couple of weeks later, my self-addressed stamped envelope arrived. Inside, on two pages of Rolling Stone stationery, he started by saying he liked my instincts, then mentioned something about his “alleged agent” and then declined the gig. I’ve still got that letter.

The next encounter came in about 1980, when I worked at Big Sid’s liquor store in Glenwood Springs. He walked in one day, his signature cigarette holder clinched in his teeth. He brought a six-pack of Heiniken to the counter, whipped out his checkbook and wrote a check for $5. I said something and he replied, “If this bounces, we’re all in trouble.” I thought about pulling out a fiver from my wallet to put in the cash register and keep the check, but money was tight, so I refrained.

I had a brief encounter with HST in the Paragon Ballroom restroom during some kind of political rally in Aspen. I’d just ripped the event poster from a wall and told him he could have my stall if he signed it. He did. Note: His red convertible was idling in the alley the whole time. I briefly thought about moving it, but wisely didn’t.

One time at the Woody Creek Tavern, HST was reeling around outside pretty drunk. I wanted to talk to him about the Aspen Wall Posters he produced with Tom Benton. He handed me a letter, mumbled something and sort of waved me to the receptacle at the Post Office next door. I took the letter, slipped it into the slot, returned and said something about the wall posters. He replied, “You should try it sometime … they’ll kill you.” That was the end of our Aspen Wall Poster conversation.

My final HST encounter was one-on-one with him (and his assistant, Deborah Fuller) at the Tavern. He wanted a photo I’d taken of him during the Fat Floyd Watkins controversy. I’d told Fuller HST could have the pic if I could have a beer with him. We met in his corner booth; he and Fuller were talking to each other and I didn’t say much. He perked up when I suggested a University of Colorado versus Notre Dame game in the Orange Bowl. “That’d be good,” he said. The main thing from the encounter I remember, however, was the flow of clear liquid running from his nose. 

As I said at the top of this column, lots of folks have lots of stories about encounters with Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Ask around.