Reminiscences of the night Hunter S. Thompson died.
by Cole Coonce
(excerpted from Sex & Travel & Vestiges of Metallic Fragments)
They were in the middle of nowhere. Having heard no news for a couple of days, it wasn’t like they could make informed decisions about travel plans back to Los Angeles.
Iggy suggested they drive back in his silver Chrysler on Sunday night, as Jack had a flight to catch out of Burbank to Seattle the next afternoon and why thrash to catch a plane tomorrow, if they can make time now? Yes, leaving Death Valley late Sunday evening seemed like a good idea at the time. But seeing as how they had no access to weather reports—there were no newspapers nor TV nor radio nor cell reception in their motel in Stovepipe Wells, and the parallel mountain ranges of the Sierras and the Panamints that had sheltered them from the inclement weather that had…
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