Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (73 page)

But so far, no elk. Getting a bull elk here is like getting a big boar there—or maybe harder, since they seem to be getting thicker than they were when I was around. Before I finish I'll get a good rack for you. About a week ago we saw two huge bulls (elk) from the road about two miles up on a ridge. Racks with a seven-foot spread and 1000 pounds each. Fucking monsters. The next day we climbed straight up from noon until sundown, getting there about the right time—but nothing. Or at least no elk. I passed up a buck about 300 pounds on the hoof with a rack that would knock your
eyes out. But it was early then, and I didn't want to spook the elk. An hour later, just before it got too dark to shoot, I gave up on the elk and shot another 300-lb. buck, but with a medium rack. I shot it off of his head with the .44, took the backstrap, and fled. A shitty thing to do, but I barely made it back as it was. It was like coming down from the Ridge Road after dark. And these Rockies make the Santa Lucias look like a public park.

Deer are big as hell around here. A lot of does are around 200. And elk are fantastic. You can't drag them a foot without a horse, and it takes five men to hang a medium-sized cow. I had to work with one that a guy up the road shot. It took all afternoon with a horse, 3 men and a jeep to get back to the ranch, and another hour to hang it. And it wasn't big, as they run.

Even so, I'd rather hunt boar. It's a gutsier game, and not so much work when you get one. I was going to trade the .264 in on a Weatherby .300, but the damn thing is too efficient to get rid of. No matter where I hit, the bastards fall. The other day, after I'd gone out at 4 in the morning and climbed until 9 to get an elk—and failed—I was so pissed off that I took a 600- or 700-yard shot at a buck. He was so far away that I could barely see his rack—a big one—even with 7-power glasses. Anyway, I sat down, braced the gun on a wire fence, guessed at the elevation, and gave it the business. I couldn't believe my eyes when the bastard sat down like his legs had been chopped off. I waited a while, keeping an eye on him, then started the horrible climb. It took me an hour to get there, straight up as always in this goddamn country, and I was no more than 10 yards away when the bastard jumped off and crashed off through the brush, straight downhill. I never saw him, but I guess it was a muscle hit and he'll recover. But what a fantastic shot; I wish to hell I could have finished him, just for the souvenir.

I think what I'll do is put a custom stock on the .264 and a 2 to 8 power B … L [Bausch & Lomb] variable scope. That should give me a hot bomb for both deer and varmints—and boar, elk and anything else smaller than a grizzly. I just sold a long article to
The Reporter
, a real prestige sale, and when the check comes I can probably afford the scope. I'll also try to get down to Big Sur in a few weeks. It looks like I'll zip over to that place above San Francisco and see about the house I might rent. If so, I'll make it on down for some pig-poking. Sometime between now and Xmas. My financial condition is horribly up and down. For the past four weeks I haven't had a dime. Charged everything at the General Store—gas, food, cigs, bullets, etc. Now, if there's anything left after paying debts, I can probably afford to travel at least as far as California. The snow here is ungodly. I have to buy chains. Last year it went to 40 below. I can't stand that.

Got a buck last week with the .44. Disintegrated his shoulder and blasted both lungs. About 60 yards. It's a boar-buster, for sure. Especially when I get the scope mounted again. It's all I need for a brush-gun.

I keep hearing terrible things about your dog situation. First I heard that you finished off the other two, and now that you can't have any at Marion's. What the hell is going on? Have you taken up cats? Are you turning queer? I have a hell of a fine Doberman, but he'll never be worth a shit for road-running without good competition. I have him chasing rabbits and deer, but I know he'd never hit one except by accident. Get a decent animal and we'll do some work. Mine already knows to watch out the front window for the action, and he moves out of the car fairly well, but I need something like a whippet to make him go hard. He thinks it's a game. Maybe I'll get a whippet. I think road-running beats hell out of regular hunting. It's a white man's sport, like falconry. I'm thinking of buying some falcons. […]

Write:

H

TO LAURIE HOSFORD
:

November 19, 1963
Box 7
Woody Creek, Colorado

Dear Laurie:

I was watching the Bears-Packers game in an Aspen bar today and was reminded of you and Tallahassee when I saw my old, Eglin Bratkowski-McGee combination at work for the Packers in a losing cause. Sorry I haven't written, but constant movement and desperate money-writing is hard on leisurely correspondence. Every time I sit down to write letters I remember an article that's overdue and have to postpone the letters.

Last week I made a big jump by selling one on Louisville to
The Reporter
. It should be out soon, maybe this week. Try and pick it up. As far as I'm concerned,
The Reporter
is about the best magazine in the country; it's the only one I really respect and as big-league as they come. I'm still doing stuff for the
Observer
, mostly book reviews, but now and then an article. Without traveling, it's hard to live off of one market. I'm also sending out short stories and undertaking a rewrite of my novel, The Rum Diary. All in all, I'm busy as hell. And broke as hell, to boot. I can't understand it. The more I make, the more broke I become. And god knows what's going to happen when taxes come due. I'll have to go to Mexico.

Sandy is pregnant as hell, and the dog is huge. I don't know how I'm going to feed all these mouths. Winter is on us here, and the snow is terrible. I am trying to move to California, but will have to go over there first and check on the situation. I am also planning a trip to New York sometime soon, but nothing can be definite until I get checks.

Your talk of growing old, combined with the Tallahassee viewpoint, made a lot of sense. I seriously think you should get going on the fiction. Try markets like
Playboy, Cavalier, Nugget, Rogue
, and that sort of thing. They don't get much good fiction and pay well when they accept something. In recent months I've seen a lot of stuff by armed forces people. Man, if I had $900 a month and time to write, I wouldn't look around for a better deal. And a good kind of experience to draw on, too. You can get some damn good stuff out of the AF. Start hustling.

There is an unusual photo of Sandy on pg. 20 of the December
Argosy
. Shirley might enjoy it. But don't believe I wrote that stupid letter; the bastards just signed my name to it. I'm currently trying to beat money out of them. Don't ever send those bastards anything. They'll steal it.

Did you see Ann [Frick] in Tallahassee? I'd really like to know what she's doing. If you see her, tell her to write me a note. To hell with her husband. And keep me posted on your doings. […] Write.

HST

Argosy had printed a photo Thompson had taken of Sandy without his permission. The magazine eventually paid him $150 rather than go to court
.

November 19, 1963
Box 7
Woody Creek, Colorado

Dear Mr. Podell:

Be advised that my bill (enclosed) for the photo of my wife that you used without either permission or payment on page 20 of the December issue of
Argosy
is $100, which I deem an entirely reasonable fee, considering the circumstances.

Since I am not aware of the exact letter of the law in these matters, I have asked the advice of Mr. Leon Daniel at PIX, who now handles my photos. I have also advised Mr. Daniel, in a letter written tonight, that—failing monetary satisfaction—I have every intention of stomping the shit out of you, either in your office or wherever we happen to meet.

The simple use of the photo would not have bothered me excessively, but the outright forgery of that stinking letter was too much. You should have had better sense than to sign my name to it. Try to find a Hunter S. Thompson in Boulder, Colo.—especially one who has the rest of the transparencies from that roll from which you used one print.

What the hell kind of an operation are you people running, anyway? Or don't you figure you need free-lancers? Fortunately, I have enough work with the
Observer
and
The Reporter
. I don't make big money, but I make quite enough to visit New York now and then, and I stay in good enough shape to be able to raise hell when I get there. There's nothing I'll like better—both as a healthy exercise and as good material for my biographers—than to gather some of my ham-fisted friends from McSorley's
²⁵
and clean out your whole damn office.

You may or may not have the decency to give me some reply. Failing that—and a check—plan on seeing me in either late December or early January. If I happen to be delayed, I'll let you know.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

BILL.… Payable, within 30 days, to Hunter S. Thompson, same address as above:

$100 … for unauthorized use of photo of Mrs. Hunter S. Thompson on page 20 of December
Argosy
. Used, without either notification or payment, in connection with letter titled “Almost Less,” to which my name was blatantly forged. Above-mentioned photo was not submitted for publication (see accompanying letter, dated September 11, of which I have a true carbon). Nor have I been in Boulder since 1957 and can see no reason why the letter to which my name was forged should have been datelined from such place.

Note … acceptable in lieu of payment in cash ($100), twice that amount in the form of suitable action on such court as the home team may prefer.

Yours, sincerely, in reaction to
larceny and insult,
Hunter S. Thompson

cc: 1) Al Podell, Photo Editor,
Argosy
, 205 E. 42nd St., New York City

Further note: Too many people in this gutless world have come under the impression that writers are a race of finks, queers and candy asses to be bilked, cheated and mocked as a form of commercial sport. It should be noted, therefore, in the public interest, that some writers possess .44 Magnums and can puncture beer cans with 240-grain slugs from that weapon
at a distance of 150 yards. Other writers, it is said, tend to enjoy violence for its own sake, and feel that a good fight, with the inevitable destruction of all nearby equipment and furniture, is nearly as fine for the nerves as a quart of John Powers Irish [whiskey].

Thompson deemed the new ZIP code system “governmental harassment.”

November 19, 1963
Box 7
Woody Creek, Colorado

Postmaster General
Washington, D.C.

Sir:

I would appreciate knowing if you mean to continue the stupid, vicious “Zip code” system, instituted by your predecessor. If so, I would also appreciate an explanation of same. Is it, in fact, any more or less than governmental harassment dreamed up by an anti-social pervert?

Also, will my letters continue to reach their destination without bearing such codes? I have no way of finding out the wretched numbers for any address I might write to, and no intention of using such numbers even if they were made available.

I voted for Kennedy in the last election, but the first time one of my letters comes back to me for lack of a “Zip code,” he can count on one less vote in 1964.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

Thompson was devastated by the assassination of President John F. Kennedy
.

November 22, 1963
Woody Creek, Colorado

Paul—

I am trying to compose a reaction to the heinous, stinking, shit-filled thing that occurred today. Supposedly it will be the “local” reaction, but of course it won't. It will be my own, couched in local color. Nobody has asked for it but I am sending it anyway. 1000 words—damn few to fill the awful hole.

I suppose your boys over there are whooping it up. Another victory for Marxism. Well, they better add up the score again, because they lost as decisively as I did. The names of the winners are not posted yet, but soon they will come down from the towers—but only after a respectable period of mourning. It is the triumph of lunacy, of rottenness, the dirtiest hour in our time. That the bullet should have come from the Far Left is the filthiest irony of all. It was right and proper that the deed was done in Texas, but a terrible shock to find the “Fair Play for Cuba Committee” with its name on the slug. I hope they have the wrong man, but I'm afraid not. The damage this has done to the Left in this country—which I guess you would call a puppet show, at best—is incalculable. It is the death of reason. From here on out, the run is downhill for us all—and I mean all.

Wayne Vagneur, the rancher up the road, stopped by with the news. I started to cry but figured that was not called for, so cursed instead. He is not the type for jokes, or otherwise I could not have believed it. Where do we go from here? All of you cheap book-store Marxists who had the answer yesterday had better buy bullets. It would not surprise me at all to find Cuba devastated by the time I wake up tomorrow. And then a notice in my box: “Report at once.” Well, if my mood at the moment continues, I am just about ready to report as long as they guarantee action. I guess they are probably laughing harder in Mississippi and in the back rooms of the Dallas GOP headquarters than they are right now in Moscow. Maybe in Red China they are whooping it up too, but Khrushchev has better sense.

This is by far the most profound act of the 20th century. But the ski bums are still living it up in the Red Onion. The big laugh. Aspen is a bag of shit. The fact that you like it only reinforces my opinion of your Marxist leanings. You will turn out like those black doctors you deplore—refusing to go into the bush because the bright lights are in town. Bright lights have no politics, and in any politics there are bright lights. It hardly matters what you believe as long as you're on top, and laughing. Fuck all.