I met Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in January of 1988. It was on the eve of his 50th birthday, and one of his traveling buddies from the campaign trail, Curtis Wilkie, then a writer at the Boston Globe, had talked Hunter into an interview. He had not, however, talked him into photographs - but I was nevertheless sent off to Aspen a few days after new year's to make my request in person. I was told only 2 things; Hunter does not get up before 9 p.m. and before going to see him, coat my stomach with a few glasses of milk.
Arriving in Aspen at the height of the holiday ski season, the only room left in town was the $280.00 per night suite at the Jerome, which I gladly let the Globe pay for. Dutifully for 3 days I would wake up, get a wonderful room service breakfast and then start calling Hunter's associates to see if he had decided to see me. Often the last person I would speak with would be his assistant/nurse who would tell me that Hunter had not even thought about it yet, so don't get your hopes up. I would wander around Aspen for a bit and then head for the slopes to work on a story about ski instructors. Nights were spent often with the same ski instructors showing me the finer points of picking up women and getting them to pay for your drinks. Between the altitude and the alcohol, I was pretty much ready to call it quits after day 4, when a call came into the hotel around six, telling me to meet Mr. Thompson's assistant at the Woody Creek Tavern later that evening at 9.
"Hunter knows you're coming but he is very busy so you may only get a few minutes." Ok, no surprises here, but I remained hopeful that once there, he would let me stay long enough to get what I needed. After 5 minutes of shooting, Hunter told me I was done.
He was busy, his assistant told me as she started guiding me to the door, working on his column for the San Francisco Examiner. It was Sunday night and Hunter hadn't started writing, and it was supposed to be in the Monday morning paper. I had to go so that they - she served as research assistant as well - could finish. Hunter was already in writing mode; walking frantically around the cabin talking to himself and shouting to her to get him this book or that as he looked for quotes to fill out the column he was working on - condemning the Bush administration for its militaristic stance both at home and abroad. A quote came to mind, from some Nazi spokesperson that Hunter though was particularly appropriate, but he couldn't remember where he had seen it. "Its from 'The Rise and Fall of The Third Reich', I offered; an educated guess but one I hoped would buy me enough time to take a few more photos.
Hunter looked at me and went silent, his assistant looked at me also, and I felt like a dead man walking; I waited to be shown the door minus the less than 1 roll of film I had already taken. Hunter came over, looked me up and down and said "Ok, you can stay." The unspoken assumption was that I was going to help him finish his column, and that is what I did.
From about 9:30 that evening, till about 7:30 the next morning, I got books, searched for quotes, typed, stalled various editors, and taped together and faxed pages to San Francisco. The night was a blur of Hunter-speak, and by the end I was finishing his thoughts and putting them down on paper as he moved on to the next idea. Fueling this process was, for Hunter, a healthy dose of white powder; for me, a tumbler of Chivas that Hunter refused to let sit empty.
By the morning, as we were into the home stretch, the powder was replaced by the weed and my trip down the rabbit hole ended in a hazy drive back to my hotel and then off to the airport for a death-defying flight out of Aspen just ahead of a storm front. I left with only about a roll of pictures but with an experience that has stayed vivid throughout the intervening years. And, oh yeah, I have the signed manuscript of the column courtesy of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson.
Godspeed on your new journey.