We arrived at Woody Creek Tavern in the late afternoon.
Sophie and I sat at the bar. there was a large oil portrait of
Hunter S. Thompson hanging on the wall.
we ordered a round of tequila.
an older couple sat next to us. the man was working at a plate
of nachos as tall as one of the mountain peaks outside.
“Hunter wasn’t a friend of ours,” the man said. “I was born in Woody Creek.”
“That was his table back there,” the woman said, pointing to the corner table.
“He would come in, with his entourage, drink, and throw shot glasses around.”
“He was crazy,” the man said. “A very talented writer. But crazy.”
“We were here when Hunter set off a smoke bomb,” said the man. “Everyone was forced to flee the restaurant.”
“We didn’t care for him,” the woman said, working at a martini.
afterwards, we drove up through Hunter’s Pass and into
the Rocky Mountains.
the buffaloes roamed nearby, hidden and out of sight.