Today is my awesome friend Tracy’s birthday. He is thirty-*mmpgh* years old, and somewhere in Georgia right now.
And not a cool part of Georgia like Atlanta. He’s in some
hot ass-end of the state. Somewhere, I don’t really know, learning how to kick ass. Anyway.
I figured that he wouldn’t really have the opportunity
to celebrate in style, so I figured I’d do it for him. See, when
I came to Aspen for the summer, Tracy so kindly reminded
me that this is where Hunter S. Thompson spent his days,
and Tracy told me I should try to visit Thompson’s home,
Owl Farm.
>>On an unrelated side-note, I totally want to name the place where I live. I would totally live on a ranch just so that I had name rights. And yes, I have a name picked out, but I can’t type it out. Not because it’s dirty, but because it involves special ranching symbols that can’t be produced by a keyboard.
So, in the back of my mind, knowing that I’d be in Aspen over Tracy’s birthday, I figured that would be the perfect time to do so.
I did a little research, and found out that Thompson didn’t live in Aspen, but in a town called Woody Creek, which is about 9 miles outside of Aspen. Fortunately, it’s on my side of “outside of Aspen”, and the turn-off is only a couple miles away from my condo. So, after work today I headed down the valley, toward Woody Creek.
Now, the most famous landmark in Woody Creek is the Woody Creek Tavern, which is supposed to be a great place for a meal. I figured, What the hell, I’m sure Tracy would want to stop there first for a burger and a beer, so that’s exactly what I did. The Tavern is one of those places with lots of stuff on the walls: bumper stickers, posters, cartoons, articles, little plaques with funny sayings, pictures of Hunter S. Thompson, beer advertising, sketches and poems on napkins, etc. I sat up at the bar, ordered myself a beer, perused the menu, and decided on a burger, which is what Thompson used to recommend.
The Tavern is located on the same property as a very picturesque trailer park. It must be fun to look out the window of your $15 million rustic mansion, and have a sea of mobile homes below you.
The beer was good, the burger was good, I chatted with random people at the bar, and the bartender. Had just a great time. Until the bill came. Y’know how, when you go into a really old country store in the backwoods for a bottle of Coke, and they don’t have electricity and the woman at the front counter is using an abacus you think to yourself “Wow, I bet they don’t take Visa here.”…? But when you go into a restaurant that has TVs and a stereo and computers for cash registers, you never think: “I bet this place only takes cash.” Well guess what… Woody Creek Tavern doesn’t accept credit cards. This girl never carries cash.
So after feeling like a total schmuck for a few minutes, I negotiated with the bartender to write a check. I tipped him heavily. Feeling like a schmuck was still balanced out by how good the burger was.
>>Another side note. I can understand if you’re a $3 breakfast kind of place, having lots of signage that says you only accept cash. But when you’re a full restaurant with $25 entrees, not accepting credit cards must royally suck.
So, after my great dinner to celebrate Tracy’s birthday, I went searching for Owl Farm. I had an address. But address is in Woody Creek don’t count for much. The town is like most towns designed around a creek that runs through a canyon. It looks like trolls design it. Even though I was, in theory, on the right road, I wasn’t. I drove randomly around Woody Creek for about 25 minutes before I figured out where I was supposed to be.
The Farm isn’t marked, and according to it’s number, it’s on the wrong side of the road. If it weren’t for the rusty vultures perched above the entrance, I would never have found it. It was rather foreboding… lots of KEEP OUT NO TRESPASSING MEAN DAMN DOG signs. So I took my couple of pictures and went on my merry way. And got extremely lost trying to get out of Woody Creek.
All in all, I embarrassed myself by not carrying cash, got lost up a canyon, found Hunter S. Thompson’s home, and had a great evening.
Happy Birthday, Tracy!