RIP Gonzo

Ashes-to-Fireworks Send-Off for an ‘Outlaw’ Writer

By KATHARINE Q. SEELYE
Published: August 22, 2005

WOODY CREEK, Colo., Aug. 21 – Hunter S. Thompson indulged in numerous hallucinogenic fantasies over the years, but this weekend, one of them morphed into reality: his ashes were blasted into the sky over his farm here, carried by red, blue and silver fireworks in front of a 153-foot monument that Mr. Thompson, the writer and avatar of “gonzo” journalism, designed himself almost 30 years ago.

Former Senator George McGovern, the protagonist of Mr. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72,” was among the 350 invitation-only guests who paid him tribute before liftoff.

“I’m not quite sure where he’s going,” Mr. McGovern, 83, mused in his flat South Dakota prairie voice during two hours of alcohol-free tributes. “But I salute you and wish you a happy journey in that land of mystery.”

Mr. Thompson’s family and friends – including Senator John Kerry, Lyle Lovett, Bill Murray, the musician David Amram, Ed Bradley and locals like Bob Braudis, the sheriff of Pitkin County, Colo. – watched Saturday night as his ashes exploded with fireworks, lingered in great puffs of milky smoke, then vanished.

“When the going gets weird,” Mr. Thompson once wrote, “the weird turn pro.”

Thus, six months to the day after Mr. Thompson shot himself to death at age 67 at his home here, did his family and friends produce a highly professional show, staged and choreographed by Hollywood and underwritten by his friend the actor Johnny Depp for more than $2 million.

“It’s nice to be able to give a little something back,” Mr. Depp, who played Mr. Thompson in the film version of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” told the crowd as the ceremony began solemnly about 6:30 Saturday night. “Hunter, this is for you.”

What unfolded here in the Rockies just outside of Aspen was the complete canonization of Mr. Thompson.

At the entry to what could only be called the set, his portrait was hung at the center of his personal literary solar system, surrounded by the planets of Samuel T. Coleridge, Joseph Conrad, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Henry Miller, John Steinbeck and Mark Twain.

Jann Wenner, publisher of Rolling Stone, whose early history was entwined with Mr. Thompson’s emerging career, said that Mr. Thompson was “the DNA of Rolling Stone” and called him “one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.”

Douglas Brinkley, the historian and Mr. Thompson’s literary executor, said that beyond Mr. Thompson’s persona as an outlaw journalist, “Hunter wanted to be remembered as a writer.” He called him “the Billy the Kid of American literature.”

Throughout the tributes, the monument, sheathed Christo-like in a silky red fabric, loomed in the gloaming, becoming ever more prominent as the natural light faded and spotlights illuminated it against a backdrop of darkening cliffs.

The service was private and laced with what was called “Academy Award-level” security. Mr. Thompson’s fans were kept at bay, as were most of the news media, and guests were barred from bringing cellphones, cameras and recording devices. Orange cones marking a tow-away zone extended for three miles beyond Mr. Thompson’s home off a narrow strip of rural roadway. Black-clad security guards, aided by a dozen county sheriff’s deputies, patrolled the 40-acre property, which Mr. Thompson bought in 1968 for $50,000 and is now worth millions.

By nightfall, scores of fans had gathered at the nearby Woody Creek Tavern and outside the gate to the property. Sheriff’s deputies said that “numerous people” tried to crash the scene but were escorted away.

The pavilion for guests, constructed in the last several weeks, was a vast stage set under a glass ceiling. To set a somber tone, everything, including the bar, was initially draped in black velvet. After the service, the black was lifted to reveal couches and Thompson memorabilia like stuffed peacocks and a gong. Above the bar were chandeliers and swatches of red velvet, evoking a frontier bordello.

His widow spoke first.

“We’ve been through a lot together,” Anita Thompson, 32, told the guests. She sobbed her way through Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan,” which she said was Mr. Thompson’s favorite poem.

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