When you think Hunter S. Thompson you think illicit pills scattering on shag carpet, the occasional gunshot or dynamite explosion, asphalt unspooling beneath hot rubber and a wide Western sky framed by sleek cherry red vintage Cadillac gleam. In other words, you think of motion - cheerful chaos, and frenetic mischief.
The legendary writer/essayist and bon vivant did not seem a man with an affinity for domesticity or the need to hang his hat for very long. But when he discovered an out of the way parcel of land in Colorado, a property offering -charming cabin, quiet writing space, and privacy enough to accommodate his various hobbies (drinking, dirt-biking, blowing up cars, shooting at things), he moved in and never left.
What eventually become known as Owl Farm was Thompson’s respite, party house, and territorial domain from 1967, until his death in 2005.
Thompson wrote some of his best work there, raised a kid there, raised hell there and held court to hundreds of admirers, friends and outlaw cohorts.
His second wife still calls the place home and is the midst of raising money to make the property a museum to her man, a sanctuary to one of our greatest writers and a tribute to the art of living hard, fast.. and well.
Owl Farm, 1971