BY JENNIFER A. STROUP
Anita Thompson had just begun the inaugural interview for this magazine when the phone rang, but George Stranahan, the subject, was used to this: the phone has loud rung loud and often at Owl Farm. It was Julie Hess, a caretaker and friend of Tom Klutznick, real-estate developer, philanthropist, and Owl Farm’s neighbor to the north, calling to say that two pea-cocks had escaped the grounds and migrated up to his home again.
“I noticed that earlier,” Stranahan said, “the dog and bird tracks in the snow. It told a certain story.”
The tape recorder was still running, and it was already night outside. Unfortunately, there is not much one can do about a stray peacock after dark. Like many birds, peacocks prefer to roost in high places and had likely already settled themselves on the roof of Klutznick’s house, not, one hoped, directly over his bedroom. Peacock feet on shingles make an eerie creaking, like a large intruder looking for a way in.
Early the next morning, after a second phone call. Anita drove up the hill to check out the situation. The peacocks, Peter and Paul- both of whom have been blessed by a priest-were huddled behind a black Audi, looking nervous. From somewhere inside the house, a dog barked excitedly. It had been snowing for at least a few hours and the driveway was icy from the temperature drop the night before. Anita had brought a pale blue bed sheet, hoping to use it like a net, but she only chased Peter and Paul, stooges-like, in circles. She returned home to make popcorn (one of peacocks’ favorite foods) the old-fashioned way in a pot on the stove, to try luring them instead. But the birds were still traumatized from the previous visit and ignored the entreaty, so she went down the road for coffee.
The scene inside the Woody Creek Store was worse. Klutznick was finishing breakfast at the round table by the window, both of his caretakers were with him, as was Kevin Doyle, Woody Creek’s resident winemaker. Tom stood up. He was wearing shorts, in contrast to the backdrop of a minor blizzard outside. “Anita, we’ve got to take care of this,” he shouted. His expression was beyond angry; it was almost sad, as though stricken with regret. “There’s shit everywhere,” he told her. Anita apologized, and approached him to talk privately.
The store’s other patrons continued their conversations. “I’d help, but I’m afraid of them,” Doyled offered.
“There’s a lot of bird fear in the neighborhood right now,” a bystander remarked.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Back in 1972, George Stranahan woke up in his home at Flying Dog Ranch to some commotion that he took at first to be wind coming through the shutters. Turned out there was a peacock screeching on the roof. It had landed there, a long way from Owl Farm, after a mysterious escapade that left two birds permanently missing.
Neighbors on all sides have had run-ins with Hunter Thompson’s peacocks, but Klutznick seems to have born the brunt of it. He has three or four pugs that live out-side in the summers; Julie Hess keeps her dog there, too. As pugs are smaller than peacocks, and peacocks have sharp spurs on their legs, Tom became afraid his dogs would get injured should an altercation occur. He began to keep a broom nearby to use as a shooing device.
Several years ago, when the birds wandered up for a visit, Julie’s dog broke out of it’s fence and gave chase. One peacock disappeared into the wetlands, and another landed half dead down the hill west of Owl Farm. Incensed, Hunter called Tom and threatened to shoot the dog if it ever came on his property again. Tom later returned the gesture by firing a gun over Hunter’s house.
Popcorn, whose father appears on the cover of this magazine, was also fond of Klutznick’s property. He was a favorite at Owl Farm. His mother, having hatched two males, took favor with Popcorn’s brother, and cared so little for Popcorn that she tried to peck him to death, so Anita raised him herself in the basement of the house. When he was strong enough to go outside, he learned how to catch bugs, peck for grain, and clean his plumage by observing what his mother taught his brother. Popcorn’s life never got much easier. He may have paid the pugs a visit and crashed himself into the fence trying to escape, or Tom may have whacked him with a nine iron. What actually happened is between Tom, Popcorn, and the spirit in the sky, but the end result was a broken wing.
The veterinarian at Aspen Animal Hospital, Scott Dolginow, was apprehensive about an operation; he had only the practice of repairing a red-tailed hawk’s wing to go on. The morning the surgery was to take place, Scott called Anita “I can’t operate on Hunter Thompson’s bird,” he told her. but she pleaded with him – Popcorn was already out cold on the table – and the operation was a success. A coyote, or perhaps a bobcat, finally got him six months before Hunter died.
“THERE IS SOME SHIT WE WON’T EAT!” is Woody Creek’s most fitting motto. (It was adopted by Hunter and the Woody Creek Caucus in 1995 when they organized a protest against the Aspen Skiing Company, which was planning an expansion of the airport to make room for 747s. The caucus prevailed, although Hunter was arrested on his way home from the rally for alleged drunk driving, sparking a subsequent legal battle.) The neighborhood has never tolerated injustices, from within or with-out. Residents pride themselves on their de Tocqueville-style democracy, their neighbors’ eccentricities. It’s the kind of place where a man can eat some acid, walk outside, and play golf in his back-yard in the nude. Inevitably, of course, conflicts arise; even outlaws crave order, now and then.
Later that morning in early January, with the help of a few people, popcorn, a dog cage, and some extra blankets, Anita succeeded in bringing Peter and Paul back to Owl Farm. As day wound into evening, conversation turned to finding a solution. “That’s just an extra thing you have to worry about this year, if somebody’s going to off your birds,” one neighbor said. But there is very little to go on. In Pitkin County, there are strict leash laws for dogs, rules for fencing out your neighbors’ livestock, and guidelines for Living With Bears, yet no one has gone on record to regulate the peacock.
Until a compromise is reached, Woody Creek will do what Woody Creek does best: police its own. Meanwhile, the peacocks have given up their freedom, and patriotically wait out the tempest in a cage.
