Before I started there I was warned,
By a friend who’d crawled inside
Years ago, when she used to fight the power.
To attend one of Hunter’s speeches,
While he was running for sheriff of Aspen,
(another HST concoction of ego and alcohol)
That Woody Creek Tavern was a dive,
But I was determined to go.
I held no expectation that I’d meet him,
The journey more spiritual than concentual,
But somewhere inside flickered hope that
The doctor would be in. I had planned carefully.
But the best laid plains are sometimes ruined
By a jackhammer and a migraine, in this case
Not a euphamism for a hangover.
So I was forced to wait, sick in the head, writhing in bed,
Until Saturday, my last chance.
A snow was due for Sunday, rolling across the Rockies
Anger in the wind, the fates conspiring,
I would have to make it there and back
Within the day.

My rental was not red, nor convertable,
A sensible choice in sub-zero temperatures
Though less glamorous, but as a stranger
In a land of crazed capitalists and
Saturday Night Specials
It seemed the safest thing to do.
I rolled out of the Denver burbs towards
The Rockies. As an Islander, living by
The ocean, far from the highlands,
Massive spikes of rocks thrust
Through the ground, spiralling thousands
Of feet through the air, covered in
Trees and rock and snow seem like
The least intelligent place to drive.
I knew I’d be okay though; I had
Cruise control.

It was 3:31 when I arrived at the tavern.
I almost drove straight past Woody Creek,
Almost invisible from the highway.
Screaming past at 100mph, a tiny sign
     <- Woody Creek
Is all that marks the away. I skidded to a halt,
Backed up against the traffic
And pulled in to the lane.
Woody Creek is below the causeway,
And my car slip-slid down the ice,
Across a wooden bridge to a tiny
Intersection. Out of instinct I turned left,
Towards the heart of the Creek,
Towards Owl farm, towards the tavern;
I parked opposite, and left my camera
In the Nissan. No point standing out.

There was a mural on the front door,
And a wooden, swinging loveseat
Repleat with warning sign not to
Swing too high. I entered the painted door
Ducked my way through to the heat inside.
Bar down the left, eight tables to the right
And a pool table down the back. No room
To swing a lizard, even though the
Stools were empty. I sat against a wall,
Quickly served oversized alcohol
And undercooked fajhitas.
The walls were covered in photos
Young faces, mostly, happy, not all
Intoxicated, dozens of kids, parties,
Families, residents of Woody Creek
Who’d never see the ocean. A giant
Halberd, with a plastic leg sticking
Out it’s mouth, guarded the left wall.
A poster for Road Dog Scottish Ale,
Scrawled by Steadman, framed,
Hung near the bar. Behind the par
Were stickers, hundreds, each boasting
Peace, war, love, hate, LSD in turn.

Slowly the drinks stared hitting my bladder
And I made for the bathroom. Timberwolves,
Frozen in time, adorned the bathroom tiles.
A sign near the tap said "Warning: Hot",
Just in case I was too drunk to realise.
As I stepped out, past the skeleton
I noticed not just the walls, but ceiling too
Was adorned with memories, floating from above,
Into the barmaid’s heads, barmaids too old
To be maids, too worn, too wasted.
The Doctor was not in, but I didn’t care.
The tavern was a dive, but one that seemed like home.
I stayed an hour.