Owl Farm sits peacefully above Woody Creek Road, hunkered behind a locked gate, guarded by a pair of tin vultures perched on ten-foot poles. A log cabin, an outbuilding, a satellite dish, a bullet-riddled BMW, a couple of barking peacocks—110 acres in all, nestled against a hillside in the springtime bloom of Roaring Fork Valley.
Five miles northwest of glitzy Aspen, Colorado, this is the home of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, progenitor of gonzo journalism, chief of Rolling Stone’s Nanonal-Aflairs Desk, self-described “lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out there where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested.” For the past twenty-four years, Thompson has lived here in jangled seclusion, doing his damnedest to follow his motto, “Let the good times roll.”
These days, however, the times are not so good. After an eleven-hour search of his home by six law-enforcement officers, Thompson has been charged with five felonies and three misdemeanors. The warrant for the search, based upon the reluctant cooperation of an LA. porno producer turned Michigan ophthalmologist’s wife, was executed on February 26th, and the search continued into the early morning hours of the 27th. Among the items seized were the following: .09 gram (about one line) of cocaine, three Valium-like tablets, thirty-nine hits of LSD, a hookah purchase...