The Bush Philosopher of Boulder

Chapter I: How I Met the Philosopher

The Bush Philosopher was something of a well-known sage in Boulder, Colorado, back when I lived there in the Aughts. He wasn’t hard to find, frequently spending entire days traversing the rolling vistas of the Mesa Trail under the shadows of the jagged Flatirons from its southern to northern endpoints and back again.

Otherwise, he could usually be found on or around Pearl Street, receiving his alms and various favors, or down by the creek, holding court over a small patch of grass or sleeping one off under a cottonwood or within the burrow of a hawthorn.

Many sought his advice and council, from students, professors, travelers and transients all the way up to university chancellor Phil DiStefano, state governor John Hickenlooper and National Football League quarterback Tim Tebow.

Anyone who had spent time in Boulder and who knew where to go, and who had a propensity to seek out things unusual and running counter to the clockwork of the day, will undoubtedly have their own stories to tell of the Bush Philosopher.

His sayings are often repeated, his actions laughingly discussed, but unfortunately, I fear these reconstructions all fail to properly illuminate something of his true essence; something that I fear could be quickly lost to time if not properly recorded.

Maybe it’d be best to start with a general sketch of his appearance before moving on to the joie de vivre that dominated his spirit.

The Bush Philosopher of Boulder was of average height. He was of slight build, but he bore no resemblance to the wiry, muscle-sinewed trail runners who’d come galavanting by, all throbbing thigh and glistening torso under the Rocky Mountain sun. No, he was more rotund due to his love of cured meats, salted snacks and frequent conversations with John Barleycorn.

His head was usually shorn, but he was less commonly freshly shaven and more likely growing through the various stages of a dense, dark-brown beard speckled with sprouts of red and gray hairs. The only usual constants about his person were a traditional Spanish wine skin he kept strapped across his chest, a battered old pair of Salomon hiking boots and the long black wool poncho he wore to combat the cold.

He was easy to flash a bright, disarming smile, whereas his eyes were somewhat guilty of lending an RBF element to his countenance. It’s true he was frequently abstracted, but there was no malice in the palaces of his mind’s eye. He was a space cadet; simply reacting to lights, noises and sensations with an indifferent sort of contentedness.

Now, there are many popular theories behind his moniker. I’ve heard it said it’s from demonstrations of a particular fondness for Busch Light — a complete fabrication in my opinion as over the course of nearly a decade of intermittently crossing his path I only ever saw the Philosopher imbibing Colt 45 or a quart of Corona if a beer was in his hand.

I’ve even heard the lusty rumor that the sobriquet derives from a prodigious amount of pubic hair. But again, this appears to be the preferred lore of the underclassmen rather than an established fact.

The truth is probably the simplest explanation. Like the Aboriginal Australians living in the Outback, the Philosopher, regardless of the weather outside, would rarely be found staying overnight in the Boulder Homeless Shelter or on the ground of the church overflow. He preferred the bush.

Still, there was a great deal of nominative determinism about my very first encounter with the Bush Philosopher of Boulder.

It was late one evening my freshman year, one of those charged September nights when an endless summer is still scoring victories over a meekly arriving fall, and I was walking on campus by Varsity Lake toward the Norlin quad.

Though I had no clue who he was at the time, I came upon the Philosopher standing on a small bench, his head thrown back, eyes gazing into the starry night sky and arms bouncing at his sides. I don’t remember feeling threatened, and he quickly acknowledged my approaching step by bringing his eyes down and meeting my curious gaze.

He flashed that grin, threw up one hand, kind of gesturing me to stop, and then he said, “Do you believe that everything that exists at some point ceases to be? That all forms of life are also forms of non-being?”

“I suppose so,” I replied.

“And if all form is non-being, then it must follow that all non-being is form! Now rate my form, boy, looka this right here!”

Then he instantly flung himself complete swan dive style — arched back, arms spread Christ-like, pioneering tilt of the jawline and eyes still locked with mine throughout the trajectory of the flightpath — into a massive rosebush.

I fished him out and he was covered with thorns and cuts and scrapes, many already bleeding all over his person. He was sitting on the grass, looking over his arms and legs, looked back up at me and said, “Whadya rate it?”

“That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” and I meant it; his form had really been outrageously good. “But you should probably clean these wounds. You’re bleeding pretty bad, man.”

He got to his feet then and I noticed his shirt was torn at the side and billowing out. A cut on his forehead was looking vaguely Harry Potter-esque. He grabbed me by the elbow and then began vigorously shaking my hand.

“Life can be roses,” he said. “But there will always be more thorns on the side. Take in the smell before they bleed you dry.”

With that he sprinted towards Broadway and off into the night.