As you can probably tell by all the references and foreshadowing, I have been gnawing on this particular post. I have intended to write it each and every one of the past six days, but wanted to be sure that it did not turn into an angry, emotional, self-serving rant. It still may, but it is never going to be the perfect time to write it, so here goes. Comments as always are always welcome below, but keep them respectful.
Last Saturday afternoon (8/1), I went online to the Denver Post for baseball news
when I noticed a link that mentioned a funeral the day before for a police officer in Montrose, Colorado who the previous week was killed in the line of duty. When I saw “Montrose,” I instantly thought of Dennis. He was my first “real” ride ever, and as I read the article, I discovered that the man who killed the police officer and wounded two others before killing himself on July 25th was the same man I had ridden with: Dennis Gurney.
There had been a domestic violence call, and by the time police had arrived, he had barricaded himself in his garage. From what I have gathered, he managed to gain access to the gun safe without his estranged wife’s knowledge, or had stashed guns in the garage prior to the call. Either way, the police were unaware that he was armed when they blindly entered the garage to arrest him. He ambushed them. Dennis shot the three officers with a hunting rifle, killing one, and then turned his .22 Ruger on himself, committing suicide with a single shot to the head.
I sat paralyzed in shocked disbelief for a bit, and then frantically scoured Google devouring any details I could find. I naturally then began to reflect back on the short time I spent with him going back to
the original post I had written 15- months ago, and finding it grossly inadequate. In my defense, this was only my third or fourth post and I was then treating this evolving blog like a novelty item, not focused nearly enough on depth. I had not figured everything out yet and was focusing much more on my actual written journal. As you will notice, if you go back to May 2008 via the archives, the posts gradually get more detailed as time goes on. I have seriously considered rewriting them several times, but decided that leaving them relatively untouched would preserve the continuity of where my focus and attitude were at the time. With Dennis’ post, however, simply leaving that blurb to stand-alone is now unacceptable at best, and probably bordering on irresponsible.
The many people I have told about Dennis’ death have seemingly responded the same: “
See! People are nuts!” or, “
You’re lucky he didn’t kill YOU!”
Horseshit.
Dennis was no lunatic. In my experience, he was a good, generous, obviously tormented person. He was not a person deserving the simplistic label "just another sociopath." With the benefit of hindsight and online newspapers, here is a bit more of his story.
As mentioned in the original post, in 1980 while in his early 20’s an oil well fire severely disfigured him. I had known about the fire and obviously, his appearance, but he had omitted some things from his narrative.
Before trying to extinguish the flames, he went BACK to seal the source of the fire, sparing some of his co- workers the same fate in the process, while no doubt making his own infinitely worse. While you may sit in judgment this man, I would invite you to ask yourself this:
If YOU were on fire, would you first think of the safety of others first? Or, might you be focusing on the fact that you cooking alive? Does this sound like a man with no regard for life? Now, ask yourself this:
How much Hell is a person expected to endure? Once you have your answer, read on.
The fire had burned Dennis’ nose and ears
completely off. With 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body, he literally died several times in surgery.
Then, his wife was not allowed to see him
for 6-weeks after the accident because she was pregnant, and the doctors were afraid the sight would cause a miscarriage.
His burns were so devastating that doctors were unable to get enough of his skin to complete the graphs and resorted to harvesting skin from human cadavers and pigs. His body periodically rejected these, and the transplanted skin would actually
decompose ON his body.
Once the doctors realized he would survive, the reconstruction process began doctors predicted Dennis
might live another 10-years. Certainly no more than 20. Remember, this was in 1980.
Dennis’ recovery process required countless reconstructive surgeries over the span of years. The legal process of gaining a settlement from the oil company also took years. Dennis had indicated to me that he was “well off” but I paid little attention figuring, wrongly, that it was bravado. He and his wife ultimately received a huge sum of money, enough so that neither of them ever had to work again. At some point, they moved to Montrose on the advice of doctors who said the dry climate would help a man who had lost his sweat glands.
It appears that things were, relatively speaking, fine for nearly 20- years after the accident.
He was active in the community, made friends etc., and there are even anecdotes from friends who never knew him to drink- even a beer. Yet, it appears that in the end that, despite the money and affluence, somewhere around 2000 things began to take a turn. From what I can infer, he began to drink more, becoming increasingly mean, spiteful, depressed, and ultimately violent when he did. Clearly, something had happened or changed. Someone noted that 2000 was the 20- year mark he was never supposed to reach.
Fast forward now to 2008.
Dennis picked me up in May while I was in Ft. Morgan. He claimed that I was the only hitcher he had picked up "
in 20,000 miles," and had done so because (as I would hear often from that day forward from various people) he just had a “feeling.” I believe he needed the nonjudgmental companionship that an anonymous backpacker might provide. We spent nearly 5- hours riding along I-70 toward Glenwood Springs and he was gulping his now- famous vodka the entire way. He had a few peculiar conversations with his wife that I could hear via the truck speakers (On- Star), and then became progressively more despondent as the night (and vodka) wore on. His wife had a strange tone to her voice, as though she sensed something familiar (drinking), and was not buying in to his repeated proclamations of sobriety. As the night progressed he became more introspective and reflective, and we forged an odd sort of bond as he began to open up. During that time, I saw first hand, at least superficially, many of the things written in various publications: Depression, self- destruction, self- pity, a quiet rage, and a complete lack of the fundamental tools needed to cope with his burden.
Dennis really
was a good- hearted human being; but one relentlessly tormented by his appearance and by what had happened on that oil rig. Our conversation centered on how he hated his appearance and despised people for the way that they silently, but blatantly reacted to him. He knew his life was out of control because of it. The resulting over-sensitivity and self- consciousness turned vodka into his best (and indispensable) friend. Dennis knew his life was slipping through his fingers into that bottle, but was helpless to do anything about it because, for whatever reason, it was his only refuge. These were
his own words, not just my vain attempt at street- corner psychiatry.
I tried to encourage him to treat the source, rather than simply the symptom. In other words, I thought Dennis needed to deal with his appearance and how he felt about himself before the alcoholism. The two walked hand- in- hand, and I knew what I was talking about. I spent most of my own teens, 20s and early 30s using alcohol as that same readily available anesthetic and social lubricant. I could clearly see my own reflected image in his anger- driven self- destructiveness. It is the kind of rage that has no outlet because it has no target. Whom could he blame for his condition? God? I shared my own experience with alcohol abuse, and that the “state” had also tried to force me into the blanket cure-all: AA. And, how it was a complete failure even though I went in with an open mind. In the end, the solution cannot be found externally because it’s not “out there.” It must come from within; otherwise, you are substituting one anesthetic for another. One that is less destructive to be sure, but one that also continues to hide or suppresses the “infection”, so to speak.
I told Dennis that, for me, nothing worked for any length of time until I began to take a long, painfully honest look inside and began to confront some of the darkest, frightening, suppressed, corners of my psyche. The very ones we desperately want to avoid out of fear. The fear that we may not like what we find. Nevertheless, I told him, in the end it is a dragon we
must face and ultimately, we each have to face him alone. The good news is that while the dragon has a mighty growl, he has no teeth other than those we ourselves provide him through our own fear and cowardice. Rather than breathing fire, he has a nasty, chronic case of halitosis. Once you discover this closely guarded secret he begins to cower, then sit relatively quiet in the corner, snorting occasionally. But, a good metaphorical dirty look will silence him. Some say that he my eventually die of starvation once we quit feeding him our irrational fears. Perhaps we have the choice of either wallowing in our own mental feces feeling victimized, or taking control of our fears and embracing the responsibility for becoming the person we choose?
Again, I know I just said it but it bears repeating:
This is not a job we can contract out, and no person can “give” you these things. You can receive guidance but ultimately, it is
your battle to fight
alone. The reward however is priceless. Along the way, it will redefine you and allow you to reclaim your identity and establish it from within. I shared all of this with Dennis and, a year later much of what happened with me personally in June was yet another step in this long process. I don’t believe it’s “coincidence” that I noticed that I was finally able to drink like a normal human being again without the familiar
Random Acts of Stupidity.
Dennis took to this concept and desperately (not an exaggeration) wanted me to stay at the hotel to talk more, offering as bait to take me all the way to Grand Junction or Montrose the next day. However, by the time that he checked into Glenwood Suites he was unable to hold a sensible conversation due to fatigue and vodka. I also had begun to sense an odd vibe as his mood deteriorated. I'd had long since had enough and needed to move on. I told him, truthfully, that I liked him & would love to chat with him more but was simply sick of dealing with vodka. His truck conveniently had a laptop with nationwide broadband, so I had secretly sent out Couchsurfing requests from Idaho Springs all the way to Breckenridge before finally arranging to stay with Leah in Glenwood. I then hoped that I could keep him motivated to make it that far through our conversations, and the implications that there were ladies waiting to party with us!
I never talked to Dennis again, although he did have my cell number. I have since hitched and backpacked all over the country, and Dennis had been a favorite story and reference point about the interesting, and
GOOD people I have encountered.
He will continue to be. I believe he was a tormented soul who was seeking the friendship of a complete stranger and for a while, and found it. I had often wondered what had become of him and thought of him often. People seem to love to label Dennis as a “cop-killing monster” but
he was no monster. The best and most accurate assessment I can give would be that, knowing what I know now, I would GLADLY still hop in and take that ride across the mountains with him again.
Dennis had talked of alcohol related legal- troubles in Oregon and Eagle, CO and, from what I have read;
the state had ordered rehab which, not surprisingly, failed miserably. Cart before the horse. According to the papers and court documents, things began to get more severe last September. There were at least two arrests since then for domestic violence and Dennis and his wife had separated. He was living in a hotel and spending most of his time writing reconciliation letters, drinking, and violating restraining orders until July 25th.
It would appear to me that Dennis simply did not have nearly enough fists to swing. Even if he had them, there would still be no target for the rage and depression that consumed him. Other than himself. Inevitably, when all you can blame is God, the lashings lands on those who are closest. In his case, this person appears to be the wife who had stood by him through everything. While I cannot imagine living his life and can sympathize, the raw truth is that, in the end, the responsibility for his life lay in his hands, as it does all of us. Tragically, his inability to regain control ultimately led to alcohol-induced bloodshed and devastated families.
I seriously considered making the 300- mile journey to Montrose for Dennis’ funeral this past Tuesday. Had the Saturn not broken down in March, I surely would have. I would liked to have made the humble gesture to his family, and let them know that there was one other person who was thinking of them. Someone else who had some level of compassion and at least a primitive understanding for what they have been through over the last 29- years. It also would have been a nice gesture to Dennis himself. Unfortunately, it did not work out.
One of the most disconcerting things I have seen over the last week is the barbaric treatment of Dennis and his family by the supposed “innocents” sitting unseen at computer terminals. The ability to anonymously “contribute” to news articles opened the door to Hell’s Kitchen, and out have slithered some of the most vile invertebrates imaginable. I have seen an odd mix of contrived busllshit. For example, obvious feelings that Dennis was “Burning in Hell” due to their personal religious beliefs, yet conveniently omitting those main tenets of Christianity; compassion and forgiveness as opposed to a blood thirsty vengeance. Some of the comments directed at his family are unconscionable. Anonymity removes accountability and breeds a curious regression back to the schoolyard. It has shown me once again the rotted underbelly of the vultures some show themselves to be when no one is looking. On a positive note, the nephews of the slain police officer recognized that there were two families decimated, and sent flowers to the Gurney family. I thought that showed extreme empathy and kindness. I hope it will serve as an example to the Christian Vultures eagerly pecking away at Dennis’ corpse.
That said, I have yet to come to terms with is this knightly treatment of the police officer who was killed “in the line of duty.” Colorado Governor Bill Ritter spoke at his funeral. It was a hero’s celebration complete with an antique fire truck taking the casket through Montrose. People lines the streets crying and holding hundreds of signs invoking the curious adjective “hero.” Admittedly, my opinions are slightly skewed having been involved in the “Justice for Money” system once or twice, and because of my own recent experiences; bringing the treatment of
Leif in Tennessee, and the
cop in Kalamazoo to mind. My respect for the
law enforcement culture has been steadily waning for years, and I find the on-cue, contrived, advertised, on- your- knees- worship outright amusing. It is as though all the episodes of CSI have rotted brains, allowing some to believe the peddled propaganda. Perhaps this cop WAS a great human being and Father-of- the- Decade, but these story’s are always portrayed the same: “
Saint Killed by Monster!” It is as though the media is following a pre- conceived playbook. My background has led me to suspect strongly that is indeed the case with most “journalists,” but Nancy Lofholm at the Denver Post opened herself up to criticism by writing
a very fair article last Sunday. It was through her piece that I learned of Dennis’ actions on the rig, and much of his background. She took the time to gather and present a more complete picture, and I was impressed. She avoided the route of generic sensationalism, instead choosing to attempt to tell the full story. I personally emailed her, and she deserves acknowledgment here.
I do not see any of these cops as bonafide “heroes.” They were, I assume, entering Dennis’ garage
while drawing a paycheck. I do not recall reading that they just happened by on their way to Baskin Robbins for sherbet and cake, spontaneously and selflessly choosing to get involved for the common good!
Personal safety be damned! No, that was
not the case. They were law enforcement professionals. It was…
their fucking job. They chose their professions clearly knowing what the job may entail and, in my mind, are all too often little more than deified, marketed-mercenaries who are contracted to uphold “
The Law.”
There are wonderful, stand- up policemen and, not knowing this person, I do not presume to know anything about his motives. However, let's just keep in mind that an act of true “heroism” is NOT knowingly compensated. It is NOT an act initiated by the orders of others. Many of the comments directed at Dennis obliquely reference his “personal responsibility,” and that is fine; I am all for it. However, let's apply it equally. There is an element of that same "personal responsibility" when
choosing a dangerous profession; one that presumably pays well. Many have lamented as to how his daughter is now fatherless, and while that is sad, some of that responsibility lies with the cop himself. Using the litmus test applied to Dennis, one could ask whythe cop did not take a desk job once his daughter was born. In addition, there is a
big difference between NYPD’s heroes running into the
collapsing twin towers, and running into a garage under the assumption that that a disfigured 50- something may throw a hammer. What exactly is heroic about believing you are running into little more than a fistfight when you outnumber the guy at least 3:1 with backup outside?
Heroism is something that requires a decision made, and action done knowing your life is in jeopardy;
not being shot because you were unaware that a person was armed when you were ordered, or gave the order, to rush him. I know these opinions are not popular is a society desperately clinging to every contrived example of heroism presented (and defined) by the propaganda machine in the media. A collection of people whose "reality" is interpreted while sitting on the couch seeing the world through electronic eyes. I no longer care. This is common sense, and I hope people are noticing this pattern. Right on cue, the media is blatantly enforcing the boundaries for the dialectic of “acceptable” thought.
That leads me to one aspect of this story that has not been addressed anywhere.
Why were the police storming the garage in the first place? Obviously, they were acting on defective “intelligence” in assuming that Dennis was unarmed. Whose decision was it to run into this ambush? Where is the accountability
here? Was
that person not thinking of this cop’s daughter? It seems to me that using well- measured restraint; the situation could have ended much differently. Conceivably, Dennis could have sobered up and surrendered, or committed suicide alone. I do know that he had called his sons from the garage asking them to come to the scene. Possibly, they could have helped talk him out with an exercise in patience. I wonder if, with this patience, maybe a lengthy jail term would have provided an uninterrupted opportunity, and sobriety, needed to get a grip on his life. So many typical “maybes”; we will never know.
Finally, over the last week I have noticed a return of yet another of Morpheus’
Splinter in the Mind made evident by the re-manifestation of a well-known & gnawing negativity. Some of which are hovering directly above! I have decided to split this into two separate posts, to make this a bit easier to digest. The next one will focus more on the future, and how I’ve been managing the sometimes-confusing process of digesting and incorporating all of this into the next phase, not just of the travels, but also perhaps on a larger scale.
we chose to hit the road at 6am. Before running into Leslie & Bonnie, my intentions had been to go south from Spearfish to Deadwood, then further south thru the Black Hills and toward The Badlands. After hatching this little plan, I learned from Shelly that our father planned to be in the Hills at about the same time then on his way to Arizona. I loved the coincidence, but made no effort to connect with him in favor of leaving it to chance. How things have changed in 2- months! Bypassing Deadwood killed that possibility, but with no regrets. I have done enough. Plus, leaving the Black Hills unseen would give me something to see later.
Further east past The Badlands, we all settled in for the long ride across South Dakota and the conversations continued. It's rare to ride with someone and have so much in common. None of the conversation was forced, or worse: bogged down by uncomfortable silence. Some rides reach this point after 10- minutes!
Whenever organized charity is invoked, my mind snaps back to my volunteer trip to New Orleans in 2005 following Katrina. This was the beginning of my personal exodus from Kamp Liberal. I saw the corruption and resulting ineffectiveness of organizations like the Red Cross, while at the same time seeing first hand the cancerous infestation of personal, dogma- driven agenda into relief work. Rather than concentrating on the task at hand, many (not all) of these "Progressives" were chiefly interested in pounding their chests in self- righteousness; proclaiming themselves noble carriers of the Evolutionary Torch. 
"I'm volunteering in New Orleans AND I'm a vegetarian (lesbian, socialist, PETA member, Democrat, environmentalist, pot head...) too!" It was repulsive, and a harsh lesson in how factionalism will manipulate any situation to promote dogma and further agenda. The Red Cross is The National Charity, and has exploited our sympathies borne out of tragedies like 9/11 & Katrina.
talking and see with your own eyes where you can help. If you want to get involved, writing a check is literally the very least you can do. It usually offers only the illusion of help; a substitute for actual involvement. "Charity" is oftentimes big business, and donated money is used to grease its machine; a blatant oxymoron.
We stopped for a quick, impromptu bath in what turned out to be a lake apparently created by damming the Missouri River. Then, it seemed that we each retreated into our own thoughts, listening to music and watching the countryside. Leslie in particular seemed deep in thought, and I would occasionally catch her intently looking at me in the mirror. I wasn't sure what she was thinking, but would find out in Carthage.
Carthage is barely a town, with a grand total of something like 187 people. When we stopped for pictures at the city limit sign, there was a sense of accomplishment. I had conceptualized coming here for a beer well long before leaving in 2008, and here I was.
Sean Penn had brought the cast and crew to South Dakota to film. McCandless was picked up by a local, Wayne Westerburg, while hitching in the area and found work on his farm. They became good friends, and McCandless spent a significant amount of time here, even returning to earn money prior to his fatal trip to Alaska in 1992. My draw to Carthage had never been clear, beyond thinking it would be neat to have a beer as a sort of toast to his memory.
Walking in, the first thing that struck me was how they embrace the media- created tether to Chris McCandless. I was curious rather the locals would resent Into the Wild Pilgrims, but the first thing seen is a sign for a beer special called "The Into the Wild!" Inside, it's a typical dark, small town bar except that it's quite nice, clean, and frequented by older folks on Sunday afternoons. It struck us as a place that is probably packed on weekends; the only place to go!
Life on the road has had its priceless rewards; Leslie & Bonnie were an at- the- table reminder of this! Also, I could see how McCandless could become attached to this isolated little town and its friendly people. It seemed there was no bullshit to be found, just real, friendly, authentic people.
Emile Hirsh posing from various locations around the bar as well as original memorabilia from "Alex" McCandless including a newspaper article. I decided against buying the Cabaret's Into the Wild t- shirt, but seeing it answered my question about how they felt about their most famous patron. He was drawing people, like me, from afar and making them money. I believe Bonnie asked a very poignant question: How would he feel about that?
