Hunter Becomes The Hunted

Saved here for posterity. I’ve been on some doozies of road trips, but this was the first big one, and there’s been none other like it. Printed in our college newspaper around November 1994, if memory serves.

HUNTER BECOMES THE HUNTED

Two men embark on a quest for insanity

By Jason Baldwin & Lane Hewitt
Gonzo Journalists

AMERICA AND THE DEPRESSED ACCELERATOR

It had to happen sooner or later. The lineage of the open road and the code of high-speed travel are rich in my mind, from Henry Rollins’ relentless box-to-box grind, to Douglas Brinkley’s insatiable thirst for the lore of history and transit, to Jack Kerouac setting off a generational firecracker with only the shirt on his back, his thumb in the air, and head full of hot bebop.

The dusty capillaries of the homicidal, charismatic living organism that is America are absolutely mythical to a student from the Midwest. Everything west of the Mississippi is a vast plain laden with drifters, music, beautiful women, and enough peyote-aided purple prose to fill every library from here to Vegas.

It was the account of one particular journey to that particular mecca of decadence, greed and savage commerce that sent my head spinning like a steering wheel in the death grip of a man who’s just seen Fear in his sleep at the helm of a 4,000-pound chunk of metal and glass.

In Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson searched for the American Dream in a town known for taking the low road, looking through the brutal, jaundice-colored glasses of drug- induced paranoia: Fear and Loathing.

One doesn’t tear open the seam of a desert of sleaze to find a country’s essence without living on his own terms. Hunter holes up in the Rockies outpost of Woody Creek, Colorado, these days, living the life of a literary rebel away from the corrupting stench of New York and Los Angeles, where even Rolling Stone, Hunter’s occasional medium for journalistic warfare, often lapses into generia and conformity.

Given four days, a suitable automobile, a trunkload of heinous chemicals, and the infinite patch of buckling concrete that is Interstate 70 West, Jason Baldwin and myself saw nary an obstacle between us and the headquarters of Gonzo Journalism and living epitaph to the American Dream: Hunter’s Owl Farm in Woody Creek.

FROM LANE’S PERSONAL JOURNALS:

October 6, 1994 10:04 p.m. High Hill, Mo.

Exhaustion and the mind-numbing consistency of the open road twist our senses and judgments as we bed down for the night at the no-star Colonial Inn in a stunted hamlet known as High Hill. We’ve only been on the road for eight hours, so I’m blissfully unaware of just how far away from home I am. The staggering sprawl of St. Louis, a land of $50 motel rooms and roughly 713 Shoney’s locations, still looms in reference.

Fall Fever began at 2:10 with the playing of “Slow Ride” by Foghat, great flourish, fanfare, and celebration. Then, we stopped at Wal-Mart: the last shred of central Indiana normalcy before the insanity of a red-eye, white-knuckle ride all the way to Colorado’s cocaine caps.

Jason began the jaunt with a series of short naps interrupted by stints of driving the car. I lurched in my seat as the car repeatedly swerved toward the shoulder, free to roam under the loose reins of my dozing roommate. Within an hour, we were out and stetching at the Plainfield Rest Stop. Coffee of death. Back to the task at hand.

Almost too quickly we entered the great flat expanse of Illinois, where the combines lurk alongside the highway. The Beatles occupied the stereo as we cut a quick and beligerent swath across a state in harvest. Illinois is a tougher foe than Indiana, pulling the motorist into constant impatience with teasers like “St. Louis — 226.” A nice thought for those on the way to Colorado. “Get me out of this state!!” howled Jason at one point, surly and fearful as he poured one can of Vernor’s Ale after another down his gullet.

Illinois fought like a bastard, but gave away eventually to Missouri. And here we are, grasping for relaxation in an establishment run by a degenerate, wild-eyed, garbled-tongued man of questionable origin. We lock our doors and hope to emerge hardened and sane six hours from now as we push on to Kansas.

October 7, 8:10 a.m. High Hill once again

Jason has gone insane. “It’s much, much easier to walk on these rocks if you’re wearing shoes,” he said after stumbling in from the demonic rainstorm wreaking havoc outside, clutching yet another Vernor’s. The television worked last night. Today, it doesn’t. Those bloodthirsty savages at the front desk will have our heads for that. It’s time to pull up the stakes and haul ass while we still have one to haul. Time for a Big Bastard Breakfast and gallons of Mother Coffee.

12:47 p.m. somewhere in Missouri

We have just purchased gas, beverages, and sunglasses from a woman with a goatee. She urged us to return to her squalid establishment. Horrifying. On to a truck stop for ATM, phone, and jettisoning of Big Bastard Breakfast. Now for more hard driving. Listening to Johnny Cash, who’s done some hard driving himself.

1:40 p.m. Kansas City, Mo.

It’s all opening up. 605 miles to Denver.

3:00 p.m. Topeka, Ks.

We find ourselves at the headquarters of the Kansas State Lottery.

3:35 p.m. I-70 between Topeka and Abilene

After a brief tour of Topeka, Desolate Hole and Scourge Of The Corn Belt, we once again hit McDonald’s for cheap sustenance. We encounter road construction and many cows. Burroughs was right. Tonight — Denver.

5:38 p.m. near Salina, Ks.

Every major city in Kansas is the hometown of an obscure astronaut. At this point we would trade Jason’s car in for that truck the Beverly Hillbillies had. Oh, how I’m beginning to hate this state.

[Jason Baldwin picks up the story. — Ed.]

Kansas is quite possibly the largest, most terrifying state in the Union. Endless stretches of concrete and steel tear through even more endless waves of grain. It lends itself to hard, fast driving.

I can understand why farmers might have a high suicide rate.

The push from St. Louis to Denver is mostly flat and disgustingly boring, especially when most of the trip is made in the infinite dark night. The best way to see Kansas is from the window of a vehicle that is capable of moving at the speed of sound. For us, the trip took slightly longer. Many say that the view of Denver is breathtaking to the first-timer. All I could hear was the sound of my sickly car; my eyes saw only hotel signs. The trip had been exhausting, but we had arrived. Hunter was well within reach.

After a wallet-lightening visit to a service station Saturday morning and a trip through downtown Denver on a bus with a man who closely resembled a badger, Lane and I found ourselves miles from people who spoke English. I think we may have been somewhere near Acapulco, Mexico, and I wasn’t sure that we weren’t, but the sight of Mile High Stadium, home of the hapless Broncos (the ’80s premier Super Bowl goats), brought me to realize that I was in a city that I had never seen, surrounded by several people I didn’t know, and wondering exactly how in the hell I came to be in the middle of the Rockies on a Saturday morning.

FROM JASON’S PERSONAL JOURNALS:

3:45 p.m., Denver, Colo.

Lane and I are trapped in a taxi somewhere on I-70 staring at a cab driver who is obviously on Social Security. He has a glob of shaving cream behind one ear. He decides that it would be a great idea and a real treat to merge in and out of traffic at the last possible second, nearly causing many collisions. We now fully understand the Fear.

4:05 p.m., Denver, Colo.

Still in Denver, getting ready to head to Woody Creek. I just paid $500 for a man to repair my car. I don’t know whether to thank him or kill him.

8:15 p.m., Woody Creek, Colo.

After a lengthy deliberation, we marched up to Hunter’s porch with a little bit of bile, a little bit of spit and a little bit of the Fear. One look at what appeared to be a living room almost sent us back the car with our tails between our legs. It was the creepiest thing I had ever seen in my life. There was a life-size cut-out of Bill Clinton, a skeleton with a bandana tied around its neck, a wall mural by limey bastard Ralph Steadman and a plate-glass window with several large bullet holes. Terrifying. I somehow managed to get the lump out of my throat and knocked on the door three times hard. No answer. We walked over to the porch and stopped under an open window, only to hear what had to be Hunter shout, “How about another field goal!?!” I was hesitant, but proceeded to the other door. I knocked again and hoped he would answer this time. No response. Rather than give up, I knocked again, this time louder. Still no response. I pounded on the door one last time, and I felt the Fear slither up my spine as one of the people inside muttered, “Sounds like there’s someone at the door.” Through the still-closed door came a muffled voice. “Who are you and what do you want?” it said, slightly slurred as though the speaker was drunk. I introduced myself and told the Voice why we were there. He shot back, “This isn’t the kind of place you just stop by.” I apologized and we walked back to the car. Before we made it back, a shadowy figure (whom I could identify as Hunter by the trademark hat) came out of the door leading to the creepy room. He said, “It’s nice you stopped by, but you don’t just drop by in the middle of the night. Next time you want to visit, send notification.” I apologized again, and we left, disappointed yet still elated. I am still trying to sort through this.

9:18 p.m., somewhere outside of Aspen, Colo.

I have gone completely insane. The scenic route from hell lies before me. I begin cursing the day I was born. I begin to laugh maniacally.

9:45 a.m., Denver, Colo.

Getting ready to leave. I still can’t believe we were on the front porch of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson less than 14 hours ago. Got a long, hard, hard drive ahead. Denver to Franklin is somewhere around 1200 miles, and I have to drive it straight to get back in time for class Monday. Gadzooks.

THE ROAD HOME: EXCERPTS FROM SPOKEN AUDIO MADNESS

Sunday, October 9, 12:45 p.m.

We are at the Arby’s in Burlington, Colorado, waiting in the drive-thru line, and we are listening to the Godfather of Soul. Not 20 minutes ago we were stopped and issued a ticket by an officer of the Colorado State Police. The ticket was issued for traveling at a speed of 82 mph in an area where the posted speed limit was 65 mph. It is starting to slowly but surely sink in that last night we were standing on the porch of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, a man who has written entire books, which is impressive enough in itself, but has also had a movie made about him in which he was played by actor Bill Murray. I think I’ll turn this off before I start rambling…

1:45 p.m. Oakley, Kansas

Oh my, it’s a tour bus! Maybe it’s the Nuge!!
Last night at approximately 11 p.m. we entered a Pizza Hut in Leadville, Colorado and played on the jukebox, consecutively, “Harvey The Wonder Hamster” by Weird Al Yankovic, “The Devil Went Down To Georgia” by Charlie Daniels Band, and “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins. Is that a combination or what?

3:15 p.m. Prairie Dog Town, Kansas

We are still in Kansas and we have just sneaked into this dirt lot here to take pictures of what is advertised as the world’s largest prairie dog, 8,000 lbs., in fact, and it looks like a big brown-and-white bowling pin. We didn’t even get to see the badgers, for crissakes.

9:40 p.m. near Topeka, Ks.

My roomate equates Topeka, Ks. with eternal damnation.

10:27 p.m. Kansas City, Ks.

I do my Adam Duritz sings Charlie Daniels routine.

EPILOGUE

We rolled into Franklin around 8 that Monday morning. Neither of us remember crossing the border into Indiana, so apparently we were both asleep. It’s anyone’s guess who was driving.