'Gonzo' Journalist Remembered as 'Larger Than Life'

WOODY CREEK, Colo. — They say the Woody Creek Tavern, with its leopard print carpet and chipped wooden booths, is the center of the universe in this hamlet a few mountaintops from Aspen.

For Hunter S. Thompson, it was bigger than that.

The hard-living journalist, who committed suicide Sunday, held court in this pleasantly seedy saloon for decades. He preferred the barstool by the door, where he could tuck himself in on cold winter nights, swig Chivas Regal and rail against the world.

Now his world was railing back. Friends of the man who coined the term "gonzo journalism" and wrote best-sellers like "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" gathered around the bar Monday, trying to figure out this last and most shocking chapter of an already outrageous life.

"I don't know why he would leave us like that," said an angry Gaylord Guenin, a local journalist who had known Thompson for 30 years. "I hope it was an accident; I'd feel better if it was."

Steve Bennett, a bartender, stared at the stuffed marlin on the wall and considered the point.

"Well, it could have been an accident; he always had loaded weapons around," Bennett said. "Anyone who would shoot propane tanks with a .357 magnum could have easily done something like this by accident. And if a weird thought crossed his mind, he would act on it without thinking twice."

Thompson, 67, was found dead in his kitchen Sunday evening with a single gunshot wound to the head. The Pitkin County Sheriff's Department said his death was a suicide.

On Monday, friends said they hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary about Thompson -- at least nothing at odds with his mercurial temperament. But Thompson's health had been fading. He had been staying at home more often because of back surgery, a hip replacement and a recently broken leg.

"I saw him last week, and he didn't look too good," Bennett said. "He seemed upbeat, but he had so many mood swings it was hard to tell. He was a larger-than-life character who will be hard to replace, and I'm not sure you'd want to."

Thompson lived in a secluded compound along a rural highway a mile or so from the tavern. Friends said he liked to pass the time firing automatic weapons, writing and drinking heavily. He typically woke at 5 p.m., wrote through the night and slept all day.

His death seems to have winded Woody Creek, a wealthy enclave eight miles northwest of Aspen. For some, Thompson was beyond eccentric -- he was an enigma. He could be rude and nasty, then turn on a dime and be sweet and lovable.