Good times were just a little more in focus

You know sometimes, I don't know why

 But this old town just seems so hopeless

I ain't really sure, but it seems I remember the good times
Were just a little bit more in focus

But when she puts her arms around me
I can somehow rise above it
Yeah, man when I got that little girl standin' right by my side
You know, I can tell the whole wide world to shove it, hey

Here comes my girl
Here comes my girl
Yeah, and she looks so right
She is all I need tonight

 

Songwriters: Michael W. Campbell / Tom Petty

 

But when she puts her arms around me

 

 By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com

You couldn't really tell from looking at me today, but I have just returned from a savage journey to the heart of the American Dream, to steal sub-titles from one of my heroes, Hunter S. Thompson.

 

"History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened." wrote Thompson.

My own troubles began when my very good friend, Scott Weinmaster, went and died last year at about this time. Following is a recent message I received late last month from another friend of mine, Charles Berry.

"Hello all... locals that have known Scott Weinmaster, there is a gathering for this man and friend of mine at the west fork campground August 10th starting at 3 pm.

"All that knew Scott and are interested please contact or call James Biard, Carl Rice, Frank Green or I. "

 

Still contacting people so reach out, would love to have everyone attend.

I want to add that we'll be celebrating and remembering Ron Hamilton as well, please come celebrate the memory of these men with us, " Berry wrote.

Ron Hamilton, of course was a long-time friend as well.

"And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . . ," from Thompson's book "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."

 

I decide I would complete the Ring-of-Saturn trip across hundreds of Colorado miles of summer road construction, weekend traffic jams on I-25, I-70,  and the backroads through Fairplay, Pagosa Springs, and up the Dolores River to Stoner Creek, and beyond.

 

“There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die,”  as Thompson noted.

 

When I turned off at the West Fork, I am not even sure I still recognize the territory. "This road is paved, a long time ago," I decided. "And the rusted guard rails, and weeds in the dry cracks indicated that it must have been 40 years, or more, since I traveled here."

Pulling into to the upper side of Mavreeso, I still wondered if I was in the right place and if I would recognize anyone, but right about that time, Berry came haulin' up the slope in a pickup, jumped out and questioningly tried to figure out who would drive a beat-up Subaru wagon to such an occasion ... came over and hugged me and pointed me down the immediate slope. I went down there, and for a few seconds, I still could not recognize anyone.

Familiarity came in waves, as first one friend, and then another figured out who that cat in the hat was. 

 

"More than 30 years," suggested one attractive woman, and as I struggled to place her. Then I realized  I have known  her and her parents for nearly 60 years.

It was like that for the rest of the afternoon. Recognition, then a story, by him or her, from the eons of history of our past existence. Some of them were told by them, some by me, some of them collectively. Some were true, many were 'improved.' Others, just the products of confusion, but all of them belonged there, in that community of years and shared history. It went on until the sun in deep valley, disappeared behind high ridge above. 

 

And we all made moves to pack up our stories and move down the canyon to return to 'the real world.' I made my way down the creek to the main branch of the river, turned left towards Rico, Lizard Head, Trout Lake, Telluride, eventually Ridgway and Montrose, and more of the arduous trip back.

 

 “But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country-but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that,”  remembered Hunter S. Thompson, in prose.

When I left Montrose, the next morning, I thought of the strange time warp I had just traveled, and Thompson's words.

“Turn the goddam music up! My heart feels like an alligator!”

And then she looks me in the eye, says

"We're gonna last forever"
And man, you know I can't begin to doubt it
No, 'cause it just feels so good, so free and so right
I know we ain't never gonna' to change our minds about it, hey