Saddle Sore: Best day to be alive

Perhaps you’ve read or heard of “Gratitude” by Oliver Sacks. Basically, it’s an old man’s thoughts on his upcoming death. (My last ex-wife gave me that book, and I’m wondering if it was a hint or an act of compassion. Ha.) Within its pages is the story, as told by Sacks, of a man walking along with the writer Samuel Beckett on a perfect spring morning (much like we’ve had this past week). Sack’s friend asked, “Doesn’t a day like this make you glad to be alive?” to which Beckett answered, “I wouldn’t go as far as that.” A remark which, if you’re a tad jaded as is this writer, was found to be more than a little humorous, beckoning further and deeper thought.

With all due obeisance to those living and dead, may I say I agree with Beckett’s remark. Truly, a beautiful spring day is one that brings forth the agreement that it’s good to be alive, but there are other days that do the same, as well. Like most days, for most people. 

A great day to be alive for me is in mid-January or February, the temperature hovering around -5 Fahrenheit and 8-10 inches of fresh on the mountain. Pop off the road going into Summit, and there isn’t much that could be better.

Or, leaving cow camp on a mid-November morning, cold, with snow coming down in those sharp flakes, whipped by a strong wind. Entering Kobey Park near the Strong’s camp, nothing but white openness in front, except for the outline of tall, wind-beaten evergreens forming the backdrop, about two or three hundred yards distant, barely visible. One or two horses stringing along behind me, not another person within ten miles or so, and an electrifying shiver runs up my neck and through my chest, giving my mind a wonderful excitement at being alive and totally at the mercy of the environment if something goes wrong.  

We all probably wonder about the end and what’s on the other side — some fearfully, some not so much. My grandfather, so important in my life, died when I was 11-years-old. There were dreams about him, of course, but I spent many days that summer, out alone in the pasture that Gramps taught me to irrigate, trying to get a glimpse of where he went, maybe even transporting myself through the opaque veil, just for a moment and a chance for a hug, a handshake, and a chance to say “Hello.” Success at such travel was unattainable, but when some of the false prophets of the 1960s-70s hippie invasion began declaring that such events were entirely possible, my being felt superior in the practiced knowledge of “Good luck, suckers.”

Our attitude can swiftly change, given certain events. Ten or more years ago, my buddy Bob and I were having a great, March 10 ski day. We decided to call it off early around 1 p.m. and headed down Silver Queen feeling great. “Gonna take it easy,” I quipped. Bob said the intersection of speed and one of those sideways ruts sent me into the air, upside down, landing on my head. I heard the crack.

Face down in the snow, barely able to breathe, my body completely paralyzed except for my chin, which I moved around as best I could to create an airspace. Buddy Bob, behind a way, soon stopped to clear my face before calling the ski patrol. While he was off doing that, I was learning what it was like to be unable to move. The thoughts that go through your head in such a predicament are generally forbidden in polite company. Suddenly, I didn’t think it was a good day to be alive … but still curious.

Broken C-3 vertebrae, between that and spinal stenosis, my spinal cord took a beating. Miraculously, there was almost full recovery, thanks to surgeon Dr. Donald Corenman at the Steadman Clinic. 

We’ve been through a lot: excellent days; screaming through seemingly miles of powdered headshots; riding broncs no one though you could; broken ribs, bruised kidneys; beautiful, sunshine days in the mountains; lovely, attractive women; and more, lots more. Lovely, attractive women. Oops, I already said that. 

And to sum it up, the best day to be alive is the one you’re living today, no matter what you’re doing. There aren’t too many I’d trade.  

But seriously, and simply put, it’s tough to beat a single shaft of spring sunshine drifting through the crack of a door.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.