Woody Creatures, as Gaylord Guenin [formerly considered the Mayor of Woody Creek] has named us, love Woody Creek. We love the rural physical beauty of the place, the plethora of wildlife, the streams and mushrooms. And we know and love each other, that’s why we hang out together so much and gossip.

Woody Creek is a myth and the Woody Creatures therefore become mythical, and we know it, indeed live it. Being myths is a chore, but we’re up to it shamelessly and shamefully.

Though George gave up scientific academia in 1971, his colleagues warned that the scientist as the “skeptical enquirer” is like the “blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, it can never be washed off.” And yet, in finding his home, George has learned to embrace the unknown, rather than dissect it. I would not say that George is a God-fearing man, nor that he cares much for religion or traditions. “Most of the time I’m comfortable with the idea that shit happens, the universe happens, enjoy it,” he admits. “Most of the time.”

I can recall only two episodes of doubt that God does not exist. The first came with a terrific hot summer-day line squall sweeping across the Maumee River and towards my bedroom window. The storm was backlit from the west and its bottom was unusually dark, ominous and turbulent. As the storm grew closer the turbulence produced a dark finger that elongated downwards; and it was pointing at me. I may have muttered “Oh my God!” but what I meant was “I have sinned and God has come, now, with his terrible swift sword.”

The rain came, pelted the windows and the roof, and like summer Midwestern line storms, was past within thirty minutes. And I was still alive and went outside to walk on the wet earth, barefoot.

I theorize now that true believers, as opposed to the merely brain washed, have such experiences of intense singularity.

In his irreverent style, George built several structures on his Woody Creek property over a period of thirty years without attaining permits. Only until recently has he legitimized those structures so that when he is no longer around, his survivors are not burdened with bureaucratic nonsense. Likewise, he carries very limited insurance.

If one does believe that there is to be a judgment day then there is considerable freedom about being an outlaw, there being only temporal consequences.

Eighteen years of ranching pulled George out of his head, and into the land. He found meaning in irrigating the land as such work revealed “purpose and necessity, more so than in physics.”

It’s no secret that not many scientists believe in God, heaven, hell, afterlife, reincarnation, astrology and other beliefs that can safely be labeled as magic and myths.

Speaking with George, I get the feeling, however, that he has in fact believed in some kind of omniscient being more than just once or twice in his life. Perhaps that’s just projection on my part, wanting to feel connected on some sort of cosmic level. But then, why all the questioning? Why all the pushing of false boundaries? Why all the creating and creations, documentations, proofs of his existence? As a theorist, he is perhaps searching for other translations of God besides those found in Biblical parables.

What myth, you might legitimately ask, what, indeed is the myth of Woody Creek? Well, it is beautiful, sparsely populated, intensely inward looking, home of some public figures; but the myth, I think, is of purposeful irreverence, about saying it like it is and getting away with it, maybe even a brief one-handed clap of applause for ourselves and our mythical role in this strange Valley.

Or perhaps, he leverages his intellect to continue running from the authorities and his past, over-analytical biographers, and pretentious conversationalists.

It is important at events like cocktail parties to identify any absolute truth believers and treat them with care. It’s not a good place to argue about the scientific method, even if they ask for it. In fact, if they do ask for it, it’s a setup.

In any case, Woody Creek was and is the home of many eccentric creatures, with George Stranahan at the end of the road. His vision of the place remains, of transforming his “environmentally and economically sustainable Western ranchland into a setting of beauty, solitude, sensitivity to a long range vision of the changing larger world community” and one “that brings spiritual, cultural, and civic value to the local community.”

For the visitor, Woody Creek is the Woody Creek Tavern and the Woody Creek Store and Gallery, and most recently the Woody Creek Community Center, all entities that George established. It is margaritas at the end of a bike ride from Aspen, limousine beef burgers and Flying Dog ale; it is exhibitions by artists who have made their mark on the unincorporated town, and a showroom for George Stranahan’s photography. And for many, Woody Creek is also, in its mythical stature, a pilgrimage to discover its telltale creatures.

Posted in chapters | No Comments