Friday 25th August, 2000

It was a long journey to Cincinnati. My main impression was of being overcome by boredom and the cold blast of the air conditioning. After 8 hours with a surprisingly quick procedure through passport control we found the airport gratifyingly familiar and located the cozy bar where we could have a drink and a cigarette.

Bill Havu was waiting at the gate at Denver wearing the American summer dress code of shorts, polo shirt and moccasins. Not much changed though his hair has more gray and is fashionably cropped. Carole, by all accounts, is fine and their little adopted Chinese daughter is well into her induction into the American way of life.

Bill dropped us off at the Oxford Hotel which is just the same since our last visit. It retains its 19th century solidity and McCormick's bar next door is unchanged with it's polished floors, long bar and stained glass windows of scenes that look more Dutch than Irish. The placard announcing the countdown to St. Patrick's day is also still there.

We retired to our room, ordered room service and fell asleep with the TV still on. We slept for nine hours but it was very early when we woke up - 6 o clock - we felt refreshed but also aware that our body clocks would need adjustment.

We breakfasted at a spacious breakfast shop called Dixon's by the old tattered Cover Bookshop and the Union Station since the hotel breakfast room looked a little dismal. We stepped out of the hotel into warm sunshine. It was a pleasure to be outside on the wide streets with their restored brick emporia. There was a bright orange train waiting at the station with Rio Grande emblazoned in black lettering - it made us want to get on it right away.

We stopped off at the Tattered Cover Bookstore for a browse. In the wine section Ralph found a copy of Still Life With Bottle and asked the girl behind the counter if he could sign it, which he did, though she seemed little bewildered and at first didn't know who he was. It's a great bookshop in a converted warehouse with the smell of coffee wafting from its coffee shop.

We returned to the hotel to wait for Joe who was due to fly in at 10 o clock to join us. Ralph sat on the sofa trying out the new compressed lap top computer he had bought at Gatwick airport while I lay on the bed and drifted into a semi comatose dreamy state which was both pleasant and refreshing. It was only about an hour later that I noticed a light blinking on the telephone - it was a message from Bill to say that Joe's flight had been delayed. But it had worked out well for us to have a rest - jet lag works in mysterious ways. We arranged to meet Bill at McCormick's, have a snack and drive to the gallery - which we did.

Bill's new gallery is purpose built with a clean industrial, functional look in an up and coming residential district where new condominiums and designer shops are being built at a rate of knots. Ralph was immediately nobbled by some eager fans, one of whom presented him with a beautiful sketchbook with handmade paper and a nifty retractable fountain pen. I had to yank him away rather unceremoniously to go over the artwork with Bill. Sometimes I have to act tough! - I can by unpopular but it goes with the territory!

We got back to the hotel to find Joe sitting at the bar with a coca cola - lovely to see him again and to take him upstairs and introduce him to his pull-out sofa in the corner - and the 1940's fishing rod that Ralph had brought for him.

We had a surprise visit from Sandy Thompson - she said she preferred to see us for a few minutes alone than having to endure the ordeal of socialising at the opening of the show. She was in good form, frail looking as ever, but seemed at peace with herself.

The opening as an event was a great success but tiring for Ralph, people clustering around him to ask questions, have books, dollar notes, T-shirts etc. signed and drawn on. I did some video-ing of the scene and took some good shots from the mezzanine floor above and captured the comments of the clientele as they looked at the work. I was impressed with the interest they showed in the pictures - they weren't just there for the drink! John Hickenlooper had provided a specially brewed cask of Wynkoop beer. He is a very jolly extrovert. We talked to him (Joe and me) in the back garden of the gallery. At one point we were joined by a large lady with a deep voice, nose hair, lanky black hair and huge hands and feet. Afterwards Joe said to me "Did you notice that weird transsexual? There had been a thin pretty girl in our group and I replied "Oh no, she's just a bit skinny - that was a girl all right". "Not that one", said Joe, "the older person standing next to you." I replied in my usual vague way "Oh no, that was an old lady who'd gone to seed." This amused Joe hugely - of course he was right!

We sat in the garden and chatted to an interesting cross section of people - a retired ship's pilot, a wild haired alternative filmmaker who asked Joe for a cigarette and Juan Thompson and Jennifer with their sweet son Will. I was thrilled to be approached by two people who had actually read my diaries on the Internet! One, a friendly lady (who had brought her husband on a surprise trip from Minneapolis just to be there) presented me with a bottle of Mount Veeder wine because I had described it in my diary. Her husband wore a straw cowboy hat in sixties hippie's style and has been a fan of Ralph's for years. He had a tattoo on his arm of the bath up scene from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and asked Ralph to sign it so that also could be tattooed that very evening.

The other reader of my diaries was an intense young man with small round eyes like currants who said that my description of our meeting with Virginia Thompson had moved him, especially since his own grandmother was in an old people's home and in a similar situation.

By the time that Bill wanted to shut up shop most people had spilled out on to the pavement where Ralph was histrionically splattering images onto various T-shirts, and even a handbag. It had begun to rain and we managed to extricate him and haul him into Bill's car. He took us to Racine's, a restaurant a couple of blocks away. We ate outside though it was cold and blowy - Joe kindly leant me his jacket, otherwise I would have been a little cold. It was with relief that we lay our heads on our pillows.

Saturday 26th August

I woke up at five with a headache - a combination of fatigue and dehydration from the dry atmosphere - so I took one of Ralph's diazepam's which sent me off until nearly ten o clock.

We took Joe to Dixon's for breakfast - a hearty farmer's breakfast of bacon, egg and hash browns. I went to the restroom where three girls were talking intensely - one was crying. As I sat in my cubicle I gathered that a friend of the girl who was crying had been assaulted and was being consoled by the others - offers of help, talk of counseling:- It wasn't her fault. She has to understand that' - said one. I felt a little awkward eavesdropping in my cubicle, so it was a relief when they left.

We had intended to do a little shopping but decided to go back to the hotel and conserve our energies. Ralph fell asleep almost immediately, I wrote a bit of diary and Joe watched TV. We roused Ralph at about one o'clock. He was feeling pretty nervous about the talk he was about to give at the gallery.

Joe had the bright idea of asking for the hotel limousine to take us to the gallery. So we had a comfortable ride taking in the sights of Denver. Beyond the wide streets banks of modern office blocks rolled by in interesting configurations, some with asymmetrical curves juxtaposed against straight-sided tower blocks and rotundas and then the traditional 19th warehouses with their flat brick facades. Our driver, called Stewart, was a bright young man who goes to lots of concerts in town. He recently saw The Who, who came to Denver. He told us that the hotel plays host to many celebrities, including Archbishop Tutu, the Dalai Lama, et al. He is a fanatical autograph hunter so is ideally placed. When I asked if had he heard of Ralph Steadman he nodded vigorously. "Here he is", I said. And Ralph gave him an autograph there and then.

The gallery was humming pleasantly as people waited for Ralph to give his talk. It certainly is a well designed space - very light and airy that time of day. The couple from Minnesota were back - Mitch, the husband, proudly showing off his finished tattoo with Ralph's signature. He is a tall man who could quite easily be mistaken for the actor Peter Boyle. He told us they met on the internet three months ago, that he was a chef (and also a minister) and she owns a chain of progressive toy shops.

The talk went well with slides projected onto one of the moveable display blocks. The audience sat on the floor, leaned against the walls or sat on chairs - so there was a nicely relaxed atmosphere. Ralph talked through the images for about an hour with humorous interchanges from the audience. From time to time I looked at their faces - I was struck by how attentive they were and how they hardly took their eyes off him. For the rest of the time Joe and I hung around while Ralph signed books. This time he actually sat down at a table - a much more comfortable way to do things, not like the night before when he had to sign standing up and pinned to the wall!

We were driven home by Dex, from the hotel - again a very bright boy who knew a lot about art and the music scene. And now we had to prepare for our last appointment on our schedule in Denver- dinner at Bill's house.

When we'd taken a cab to the gallery for the opening, our driver was a huge bull of a man who seemed to have become a part of the very fabric of his seat. His body appeared to have become welded to it, his weight forcing it to go askew so that there was hardly room for my legs behind it. He sat (or, rather, half lay) with his body turned inwards and drove with one hand. He was a humanoid who was part of his machine. He was an opinionated man and had an animated conversation about politics and American history. He said he had majored in history at college. I always suspect people who say these things - I can't ever recall volunteering the fact that I have an English degree! Behind the gear stick lay a plastic bag full of cartons from fast food outlets. How he ever got out of his taxi puzzled me. It would have been a sight to behold.

The reason I mention him at this point is that by coincidence he drove us to Bill's house in the leafy historic residential district of Denver. Carole looked pale and interesting - and very attentive to little Zoe who is indeed a beautiful child who does all the things that children of her age do. She played a game under the table pretending that she was a kitten. Very sweet We were slightly low-key, mainly through tiredness. Bill was nostalgic for our last visit when we were more in the party mood.

Sunday 27th August

We breakfasted at Dixon's with John Hickenlooper. Evidently he is a mover and shaker in the business and artistic community of Denver. The words spill out of him in a steady stream - all of it interesting. He was interested in the Asylum Foundation and also in getting Ralph's show at Bill's more publicity through the gossip pages of the papers. He particularly liked the story of Mitch, the tattooed man.

Our hire car arrived in front of the hotel at midday and we completed the transaction on the street there and then and were soon driving out of Denver on Interstate 70 West. We made a detour beyond the straggling conurbations of the city and made a detour to Buffalo Bill's grave - a solemn stone and granite monument enclosed by iron railings. There was a shop and a museum, between them encompassing the full range of tack and kitsch (the shop) and interesting stuff (the museum) though the shop had interesting historical leaflets and books. The museum was small and its exhibits were succinctly selected to demonstrate Buffalo Bill's mission to re-create the Wild West through his flamboyant theatrics and his respectful relationship with the indigenous Indians. I was particularly interested in the tourism of the time, lovely old photographs of solemn puritanical ladies in wide brimmed hats picnicking on mountain pastures by rushing creeks. We drove on and up amongst vistas of mountain escarpments, cliffs and massive boulders that had cracked and weathered through the millennia. We passed the relics of old mines. Their shattered ramparts slid down the hillsides. There were desolate abandoned cabins on the valley floor and derelict shafts protruding above the slopes. One in particular caught my eye as we drove past, rust red sheds slipping down a shardy incline like a collapsing pack of playing cards.

The road descended towards the junction with 82 to the flat valley town of Twin Lakes and Twin Lakes Reservoir with its margins of buff sand and sparsely wooded islets reminiscent of a Japanese landscape with the pale blue peaks behind. We tried to drive down to the waters edge but were impeded by 
cul-de-sacs formed by post-modern condominiums.

The aforementioned paragraph is in the wrong place. We didn't, in fact, reach route 82 until the following day - while writing this I am two days behind - it's the nature of the beast!

In fact, while still on 170 we stopped at Frisco for a late lunch at the Claim Jumper Family Restaurant, Far from being part of the history of the region, the restaurant was actually part of a shopping complex so was not particularly interesting though the waitress was very nice and for once I was able to finish my meal - salad and cottage cheese, which went down a treat.

Turning onto Route 91 we climbed ever higher, stopping off first at a wide Reservoir for Joe and Ralph to have a short taste of fishing. It was a placid lake with tree covered slopes, a pleasant place to sit for half an hour. I sat on a rocky promontory watching the scene around me. We had the place to ourselves apart from a couple of fishermen further along by a shady margin and a family on the next outcrop - the man was sturdy and suntanned, the wife was blonde and buxom and their three children all looked to be under ten years old. Their parents took great care to prepare the children's fishing rods, the mother then settling down to read a paperback while the father helped the children to cast them into the water. The older boy looked pretty proficient at it already. I thought it a very sweet scene altogether. They seemed very contented.

Carrying on along Route 91 climbing all the time (Leadville our destination is over 10,000 feet high) we saw streams that bubbled over rocky beds, dramatic landscapes, rustic homesteads and trailer homes until we arrived at the town itself. Leadville had already taken on a mythological significance for us, the reason being that Ralph had previously traveled from Denver to Aspen with a good friend, a journalist, called Robert Chalmers. They had stopped on the way at Leadville. It had captured Robert's imagination and he had tried in vain to be there with us.

On the outskirts of the town we passed a shabby motel, a cheap hamburger joint, a mobile home or two, before arriving at the main street with it's neatly restored mid-nineteenth century buildings, several bravely painted in magenta, grass green, pastel blues and purples. Here we found the Tabor Opera House, a modest brick building with a flat facade, standing forlorn with the ghosts of those who had performed there still seeming to linger - including the most illustrious in our eyes - Oscar Wilde. We were given an insight into his visit by the bookshop proprietor down the street. She was elegant and elderly with the quavering voice and loosely tied bun of Katherine Hepburn in her later years. She told us that Oscar had been a great hit with the miners, carousing with them after his performances.

One of the oldest historical buildings was the Delaware Hotel, a delicate pink and white building in the middle of the main street with narrow windows decorated like a funeral parlour with white lace curtains. We walked into the lobby - wooden paneling with rectangular wooden columns. There was a certain negative vibration running through the ambiance which as accentuated by the no smoking signs. The girl on the desk said that she had just the room for us - a double suite on the third floor. There was no lift and it nearly finished us off having to carry our bags up the stairs. We were, after all, 10,000 feet above sea level. The rooms were simply furnished and the windows opened to let in the cooling mountain air. So breathlessly (we had gone from 4,000 - 10,000 feet in a day) we recovered our equilibrium and ventured out for a drink - to the Manhattan Bar opposite where the blare of juke box songs hit us as we walked in (having first tried a bar cum eatery on the opposite corner which had an off-putting sanitized look and no smoking signs). The Manhattan was quite different - a long bar with a huge mirror, men in baseball caps, big boots and check jackets who looked as if they had spent most of their Sunday propping up the bar. The barmaid obviously enjoyed the company of her customers and cajoled them with a voice like a foghorn, raspy and penetrating and redolent of the raucous atmosphere of smoke and juke box music. At seven o'clock (about 15 minutes after our arrival) with an authority that could not be gain said she announced that she was closing. We spilled out of the warm and fuggy atmosphere along with the revelers and drunks.

We found our supper in a Chinese restaurant where we ate sweet and sour pork, spring rolls and won ton soup heavily laced with monosodium glutamate. We slept well in spite of the feeling that we had lumps of cement in our stomachs.

Monday 28th August

We got up slowly. I poked my head out of the bedroom window for a clandestine smoke with a view of the old buildings opposite and the mountain peaks beyond. We breakfasted in the small breakfast room of the hotel and wandered down the street to the fishing shop where Ralph and Joe bought more fishing gear - I sat in a small garden nearby enjoying the sunshine.

We continued down Route 91 to the junction with 82 and the road to Aspen, stopping for coffee at a quaint wooden cabin with bright yellow cut-out window boxes and shutters and vast hanging baskets of flowers. It was called The Nordic Inn and proclaimed a symbolic national pride. The interior was a clutter of Moose heads, baskets of logs and cross-stitched embroidered cushions. I took a match box from the bar and read this on the front: "Serving Colorado since 1879 - National Historic Stage Coach Stop - Former Brothel - Feather Beds!" The proprietor was not that friendly so we decided not to stay for lunch. This was the town of Twin Lakes which I have already mentioned.

Now the road took us through the most spectacular country so far - Independence Pass, over 12,000 feet high and completely cut off from civilisation from November to May because of the snow. As we climbed between dramatic rocky escarpments and peaks we found ourselves following a rushing creek and a railway line. Where the road straightened into a narrow gulch we stopped to fish - a beautiful place with a sloping shingle shoreline and the water coursing between low sand bars. Having descended Independence Pass we were soon on the two lane Highway into Aspen, noticing how construction had gone mad, from the widening of roads to faceless blocks of condominiums. The town was crowded but we managed to park and find our way to one of the last real places left - O'Leary's Pub where thick set men in lumber boots still slouched over the bar. We lunched on the small deck overlooking the street.

And then the moment could no longer be put off - to drive up to Owl farm, up the mountain, past the little town of Woody Creek with its trailer park, store and tavern and the steep bend to the right, past pasture and horse farms, past Don Delises' ranch, to the driveway at Owl Farm with its rusty metal vultures on guard on the tall gate posts. We noticed a few changes - new decking in front of the house, a wooden shed at the back for Hunter's Chevy (the Red Shark) and newly planted trees and flowers.

Deborah greeted us warmly and she drove with us the mile up the road to George and Patti Stranahan's guest cabin which was to be our home for the next week. Deborah had stocked it with great thought - from vases full of sunflowers to all sorts of provisions in the fridge. Hopefully, I can describe it all better later but I am two days behind with my diary writing and must plug on. Suffice to say it is charming and rustic and is situated at the edge of the Stranahan ranch with a large horse barn in the pasture opposite.

Deborah introduced us to Jesse (the ranch manager) and his girlfriend, Jill - they told us how to keep the bears at bay (they are roaming near people's houses because they are so hungry through lack of rain this summer). We have to keep all our food locked away. The bears have been known to climb through windows, even shattering them, and taking food. One bear stretched its paw through a woman's kitchen window and took three bagels out of her cookie jar.

Then we drove up the track to George and Patti's beautiful log house and shaded gardens and then to a pretty market garden down the road - sloping rows of vegetables guarded by three scarecrows. All in beautiful sunshine, but we hadn't long been back in the cabin before it started to rain - quite a storm racing above us. Jill called us out in the rain to see the brightest, most brilliant rainbow I have ever seen - like a child's drawing in coloured felt pen.

Deborah came over for supper - there was no prospect of seeing Hunter - he was asleep and had been all day. It did mean that we could have an early night, which we did.

Tuesday 29th August

I forgot to mention that George. S. popped in yesterday evening and regaled us with local tales - including the fact that he and Hunter share an obsession with dynamite. Also in the middle of the night we heard raucous animal cries - could it have been THE BEAR!? - and we had a power cut and ate part of our dinner by candle light.

Back to Tuesday. We were surprised to get a phone call from Hunter at about 9 o'clock, just as we were thinking of getting some breakfast together. He had been asleep for a day and a half and suggested breakfast at Basalt (a small ex-mining town that I have always liked). So we drove up to Owl farm and into the kitchen to find Deborah and Anita, Hunter's new assistant. A nice girl and pretty. Hunter emerged from his shower soaking wet in his bathrobe. While the usual searching in his pill drawer went on, the replenishing of his drink and general conversation, I slipped out onto the porch with the peacocks strutting about and a friendly long-haired gray cat purring against my elbow - to continue catching up with my diary. I must have been there for half an hour when Hunter, Joe and Ralph emerged and called me to get into "the red shark" which was sitting in the driveway. Ralph was just about to get into the back seat with Joe.

"Oh NO! I thought. I muttered to Ralph: "You go in the front, Ralph."  As Hunter slipped the clutch and we coasted down the driveway, Joe lifted up crossed fingers. I grinned ruefully - for we didn't even have seatbelts. We went at a hell of a pace, the wind whipping past us, taking the bends at a tremendous rate - luckily Basalt is only a few miles down the road. Not the same one eyed town I remembered - it too had acquired wide tarmac roads, shopping precincts and condominiums.

It was with relief that we stopped at a parking space outside a rustic log building with a wide deck at the back overlooking a babbling creek called Frying Pan River. The people who came in and out to eat were of the sporty variety - in jogging shorts, cycling outfits or waders for fishing.

We were joined by Wayne, the film-maker, who had been filming Hunter for years as a sort of progressive archive - and a slight doll like woman called Kathleen. Unfortunately, there was no breakfast menu so I plumped for corn chowder and salad. Hunter kept ordering different dishes, - grilled shrimps, chicken, guacamole and salsa etc. - he was drinking large tumblers of cranberry juice and gin. He seemed to be in a good humour and we sat there for a couple of hours. I was quite happy to sit under the trees and listen to the rushing river.

And then back into the Red Shark, the sky covered with cloud and spots of rain beginning to fall. "If we drive fast, we won't feel the rain", said Hunter, as we careened down the main Basalt-Aspen road. I thought we were doing OK until we slowed down behind a truck piled high with branches. At this point Hunter decided to overtake it. Unfortunately, the road was just about to narrow on a curve from two lane to single lane. I half closed my eyes at this point and was just aware, of a shuddering and juddering and then the side of the truck a millimeter away - and then a swerving as we got past. Half crouched in the back, my knuckles white from gripping the seat in front - almost in a recovery position in an airline emergency - I wasn't aware of what was happening to the oncoming traffic. According to Ralph and Joe, there were about four cars that peeled sideways on to the verge like a battalion of tanks in wartime. So we now call it our Near Death Experience - the gods were on our side that day.

Back at Owl Farm conversation deepened into the project that would make it all worthwhile - the re-publication of The Curse of Lono, either in its present form or in an extended version, which would be much better since the original had lots of cuts and was badly produced with ropey binding and a badly designed layout. Hunter retired to bed and Deborah lent us a photocopier to copy the original manuscripts which Ralph did over the next couple of days.

We decided to make some sort of sense out of the day and drove to the City Market a few miles beyond Basalt at El Jebel where we stocked up with provisions at the supermarket and liquor store. Back at the cabin I prepared a delicious (though I say it myself) vegetable dish of glazed carrots and sugar snaps with garlic and parsley and refried the potatoes left over from the night before. Joe cooked pork chops in the skillet. Our home cooked dinners make all the difference - after the bland, mountains of food that are usually served up in restaurants here.

Wednesday 30th August

I woke up with a sore throat and flu feeling. Luckily we had a leisurely morning while Ralph finished the photocopying of Lono. It was midday before we got to Hunter's. He was sitting in his usual place in the kitchen. He was in a good humour and conversation seemed pretty friendly. There was a conference phone call with George Plimpton about an image of Hunter by Ralph he'd like to use for his quarterly literary review called The Paris Review. Then Hunter wanted his preface to Ralph's 'America' book read out aloud - first by Joe who gave up because his bi-focals weren't right. I rescued him and read until my voice gave out - Deborah carried on to the end. Then she drove me back to the cabin - I needed to rest and, I must admit, have some time on my own. Just as well as it transpired. When Ralph and Joe got back they were in a state of shock - suddenly Hunter had become exasperated by the Lono situation and he'd gone back to bed. So Ralph and Joe went fishing in the creek and I lay down again after a long phone call from Deborah about it being best if Ralph came up to Owl Farm on his own in the morning. We had a nice steak supper and I was in bed by 9 o'clock to nurse my cold.

Thursday 31st August

I woke feeling better, though with a nose cold that progressed during the day. Ralph phoned Hunter before breakfast. They had a depressing conversation from Ralph's point of view. Hunter was saying he preferred to re-publish the original Lono instead of a new edition. He said he had some calls to make and would call back. We decided it would be best to go out for the day fishing. First we had lunch at the Rainbow grill in Basalt and then drove up the mountain following the Frying Pan River towards the Reudi Reservoir. The scenery was stunning. Towering red cliffs had weathered into fissured layers forming jagged chimneys and steep cliffs. The river raced across its bed of shiny rounded stones which created a constant motion of white spray forever imitating the shapes of the rocks on the river bed. The water was clear and tainted red by the rocks.

Every so often we would see small groups of fishermen standing mid-stream, all uniformly equipped with their expensive gear - waders, waterproof boots, fishing jackets, rods and nets.

We stopped several times on the way up. At one point, high up, just below the dam, Joe cast his rod and pulled out a gleaming brown trout about 15 inches long. A fisherman cast envious glances at Joe's nonchalant success - we threw it back, a little reluctantly - then Joe caught a smaller one and so did Ralph - if we'd kept them we could have had a fish supper!

Back at the cabin there was a message from Deborah - she very kindly had left us a box of fruit and vegetables and some night medicine for my cold. I called her back. I told her there was no point talking about Lono unless Hunter really wanted a new edition and that it would be up to him to prepare the text. Only then could the book be designed and Ralph's a/w be decided upon. She agreed with this.

After supper I retired to bed - my cold had thickened and I was really tired.

Friday 1st September

First thing Ralph had a long conversation with Gordon Kerr in London about Lono and its possibilities. Next thing a long conversation with Hunter about the same thing. The final arrangement was for us to drive Ralph to the Woody Creek Tavern to read and record the published Lono and for Joe and me to go down to Aspen to find an adaptor for Ralph's tape recorder which wasn't working. On our return we found Ralph, Hunter, and a burly man with a red beard ensconced around a corner table on the patio. He was reading from the book, a video camera set up and everyone concentrating hard in deference to the great words. Joe and I found a table to the side where we watched the people, the young sporty set in bicycle gear or hiking boots - occasionally we glanced at Ralph's table - surreptitiously. The reading went on and on. But we were quite happy to sit on the sidelines. The weather closing in a bit - not very conducive to fishing - and I was beginning to feel bad again.

I went to bed while Joe and Ralph went shopping for the ingredients for my chicken and soy sauce dish that I had promised to cook for Juan and Jennifer's arrival at Owl farm. I managed to cook but still felt rotten and wretched as I smelt it cooking, of course I couldn't go - especially since little Will Thompson would be there. I watched Thelma and Louise on video and went to bed till. Ralph and Joe returned at three in the morning. They had got more of Lono read aloud on tape which is why they were so late back.

Saturday 2nd September

We slept late and woke to a still and sunny morning. I think I feel a little better, I'm not quite sure!!! We got out of the cabin at midday after a slow start and drove up the narrow track to George and Pattie  Stranahans house. A gorgeous day with blue skies and tiny white fluffy clouds. They weren't in but we stopped to admire their sloping garden with its ringside view of the pale blue mountains.

We drove along the Basalt Road following Roaring Fork Creek where we stopped in a layby and clambered along a beach of large round rocks of all sorts of colours, red, blue, gray, buff - like a giant's pebble collection.

Then we took Frying Pan Road, stopping here and there to fish where the water seemed more placid than most of the rushing river - gorgeous breezy summer weather and though I felt a little delicate the fresh air did me good. I alternately sketched, took photos and gazed at the amazing configurations of rocks and cliffs - some resembling stacks of paving stones, others like red monoliths - and wonderfully shaped rocks rearing out of the foaming water like strange creatures emerging from the deeps. We carried on up to the Reudi Dam which was an impressive piece of water, but a man in a little kiosk was taking fees - it was really for people who wanted to water ski and sail their boats. So we turned back down the road, stopping off again to fish. Back in Basalt we had a late lunch at the Bistro at Basalt - onion soup and smoked salmon - the best meal I've had since I've been here.

On the way we stopped off at Hunter's to see if he would write a sentence for the Jimmy Carter Foundation which Joe would print. Whether he will do it, who knows? - he was off to a concert at Snowmass to see Lyle Lovett.

Then back to our cabin. Ralph went to lie down. Joe said he'd go and have a look at a little pond we had seen on the Stranahan property. I jokingly said to him to bring our supper back. In the meantime I cooked a chicken we had bought. And lo and behold - he came back with three beautiful trout! But they didn't taste too good when we cooked them. Perhaps the pond was stagnant.

Sunday 3rd September

Joe packed and we drove down to the Texaco petrol station for him to catch the shuttle bus to Denver and back home. A jokey and jolly girl introduced herself as the driver and we waved Joe off.

We returned to the Woody Creek Tavern where Curtis (the red-headed man who had been reading the Lono text the other day) had just arrived. He was supposed to meet George Stranahan to talk over re-issuing the Rocky Mountain Gazette. He had two thick volumes of them under his arm - very 70's in look, black and white with a broadsheet style and plenty of good design with large photographs and very open text. We had a drink with him while the usual bikers and hikers paraded in. The little patio was very full. As we were about to leave Gerry Goldstein walked in looking very Californian.

We drove up to Owl Farm to find little William playing in the front under Deborah's supervision while Juan, Jennifer and Jennifer's sister ate lunch inside. Hunter, was sitting at his counter - more ensconced than ever since the football season had just started.

We had been invited to a party that afternoon. Our hostess was Nicky. She lives at the far end of the valley - about 6 miles up the road - and what a beautiful valley it turned out to be. It became ever wilder as we climbed up the dirt road. The impression of isolation only scarred by a large property owned by two guys who have turned it into a garden designers paradise - neat lawns, fussy stone walls and prissy ponds. Nicky's house is built above a slope, very simple, wooden with a deck that juts out over a steep gully with a creek at the bottom hidden by undergrowth and trees. Every year Nicky and her husband Oliver had a Labour day party for their friends (Labour Day being 4th September). Last year was no exception. Early in the morning of the day of the party, Oliver died. Deborah got a call at about 6.30 in the morning. It was dreadful trying to get in touch with everyone. Bob Brandis, the sheriff, was wonderful and arranged everything and sorted things out, both as a friend and in his official capacity. He is a big-hearted man who exudes confidence and friendliness.

There were about 30 people there when we arrived, tables were laden with wonderful salads, fresh prawns and dips of all kinds. The smell of chicken cooking wafted from the barbecue. We probably knew about half of the people there - Hunter, Juan etc., Chris and Gerry Goldstein, Wayne, Kathleen, Bob the Sheriff, George and Patti.

In preparation for the party the year before Oliver had bought wide brimmed straw hats with gauze flowers sewn on them to give to the ladies. So when we arrived the scene resembled a Victorian garden party as all the ladies had been presented with one to wear. I sat on the deck to eat with Deborah and Anita, Nicky and some of the ladies - all very friendly. Bob gave a little speech in remembrance of Oliver and so did Nicky, with tears in her eyes and her voice breaking. All very sad. A hush came over the gathering as if a cloud had passed over. There are times when people open up to strangers and I heard all sorts of tales of tragedy and emotional turmoil which had affected many of the people who were there. Living in such a paradise is no insurance against tragic events.

Deborah drove us back - a magnificent sunset on the way. Spent the rest of the evening watching a video of 'Payback' and an early night - again!

Monday 4th September

Today was Labour Day - and a beautiful day it was - clear blue skies with puffy white clouds and a gentle breeze. I noticed that the Aspen trees were beginning to turn yellow. I spent most of the day on the deck at Owl farm, reading or chatting to Deborah, Jennifer or Juan or whoever was around. Juan finished the readings of The Curse of Lono - so mission accomplished!

George Stranahan picked us up at 7 o'clock to take us to Chris and Gerry Goldstein's for supper in our honor! they did us proud - hors' d'oeuvres and champagne on the patio and a gorgeous dinner (with burgundy wines). good company too - Bob, the sheriff, and girlfriend Louisa - Gerry in his usual extrovert form - a young illustrator from Texas who was in great awe of Ralph and Chris looked very elegant. George left early which is what he normally does - so we got a lift back with Bob and Louisa in his police car - the radio crackling messages as we drove up the mountain. When we arrived at the cabin Bob gave us a blast of the police siren in English and American!

 

Tuesday 5th September

We were all packed up and ready to leave by 9.00 am. I had cleaned up the cabin the day before - Deborah had done so much for us and had stocked the cabin so well that I wanted to leave everything shipshape. We stopped off at Owl Farm to say goodbye to Deborah (Hunter was asleep) and set off on the 82 road, past Basalt and Carbondale to Glenwood Springs where we stopped to find breakfast, but could only find coffee shops (not the same). We passed the spa hotel with its twenties architecture and sulfurous spa baths and headed onto Interstate 70 East towards Denver. We had dramatic scenery following the wide brown Colorado river and cliffs peppered with pointed rocks and forests of pine. We stopped at Gypsum for breakfast at a one roomed Mexican American Cafe - all very spic and span inside with bright blue print curtains at the windows - a Mexican family ran it. The proprietor nursed a toddler in his arms while a young girl served the customers. From what we could see Gypsum had the usual compliment of shabby trailer homes.

We soon came off the I-70 on to Route 24 to re-visit Leadville. Panoramic views as we climbed up the mountains with ever more dramatic vistas of forests of wilderness and deep gullies with foaming creeks. Our first stop at Leadville was the fishing shop for Ralph to change the reel he had bought before and which didn't work. I waited for him in the little park down the street, sitting in the sunshine watching the world go by - not much going on - a few touring couples wearing their odd fitting shorts and matching baseball caps, a cyclist gliding by with his space age safety hat and a local or two in jeans and working boots. The town had the air of a long Sunday about it. Next we drove down to the far end of town past one-story garages, workshops and dirt roads that ended in nothing but the desolate mountain slopes laid bare by old mining concessions. Ralph wanted to photograph a particularly desolate mining and engineering plant with the remains of an old wrenching wheel in front and a curious collection of large rocks punctured by holes to denote 'the boom town years'. A strange memorial explaining the different years of 'boom town'.

We left Leadville on route 91 which was the one we'd come down on before and picnicked above the Dillon Reservoir near Frisco. It was very hot but mitigated by a strong breeze.

We passed through an area that had been heavily mined since 1918 (we tuned in on a radio frequency to listen to the history of the area ) - Climax Mine - Malignam was mined here and when mixed with steel became incredibly light and strong.

As we approached Denver we steeled ourselves for the final drive into the big city. Juan had given us directions but he'd numbered one of the exits wrong (212A instead of 212C) - so we had a little trouble finding 17th and Wazee Streets but made it in the end. We showered and flopped in our room at the Oxford and then met Bill, Carole and little Zoe in McCormick's. It was quiet there apart from a group of young women dressed in black for a hen party. Little Zoe could play under and around the table and we had a light supper. It was nice to see them once more. We collapsed into bed at about 9.30.

Wednesday, 6th September

We breakfasted in Dixon's and waited in the Oxford Hotel lobby for our shuttle to the airport. We chatted to the doormen, Stewart and 'Boggs' - he looks like John Malkovitch dressed like an Edwardian gentleman in tails and fob watch. Quite an eccentric, according to Stewart who is great friends with him. They share a passion for music, especially the Beatles. They had a wonderful camaraderie. Bellboys are a race apart with their own particular sub-culture. It was like leaving old friends when we finally climbed into the air conditioned shuttle bus. The driver was extremely talkative and gave us the low down on the socio-economic structure of the American family, as if he were giving a lecture.

Our flight was on time and we were soon winging our way to Cincinnati to stay with Joe and then on to New York and then home. But it was goodbye to Colorado at least.

ART | RALPH | NEWS | FROM RALPH | WHAT'S NEW? | FANCY GOODS | HOME

Contact: joe@ralphsteadman.com

Copyright © 2003, Anna Steadman. All Rights Reserved