Saddle Sore: Ringing the bell

Lying on the hospital gurney with a fractured C-3, wondering if I’d ever be normal again. After having X-rays and other tests, a surgeon walked in, stood behind me, looking at the CT scan and asked if I’d played football. “Yes.” But I didn’t get the connection right away. High school and one year of college, but this was a skiing accident. Worse hits on the head occurred from things other than football, it seemed. 

While still in high school, there was a new horse on the place, a dun, “Take this one irrigating, and tell me what you think,” said the new owner. You bet — love riding new horses. We made it up to the Big Mesa, across a large hayfield, and dismounted to clear debris from one of the lateral ditches. Not so much as a spook, so far. 

Got back on, and no sooner had I picked up the shovel, the horse ducked his head, and over it I went, shovel flying through the air. My head hit first, and the crack it made against the ground got my attention in a hurry. Figured I must have broken my neck, but nope, I was OK. “Why, you dirty SOB,” I plainly said. 

Ready to move on, I was prepared for him, figured he was going to buck again, but this time, I would be paying attention. Sure enough, no sooner had I mounted up than into it he went again, acting like the rodeo chute gate had just been opened. He bucked like crazy for about 30 yards across that field before I finally went down. Not on my head, thankfully, and the horse took off, galloped back to the ranch. The owner was curious; he got a short description. Getting bucked off wasn’t as embarrassing as being forced to walk back to the headquarters was. 

Nice fluff, about 8 inches, what the Steamboat folks have claimed as Charlemagne Powder or something, although I was at Snowmass, waiting to pick up my daughter. Suddenly, my right ski popped off. With that much soft snow, I figured I’d ride it out to the side of the run and regroup. Instead, the next thing I knew I was lying flat on my back with a man straddling my waist and bleeding on me. Looking to my left, I saw a line of trees and became convinced I was lying on our ranch in Woody Creek. My brain was wrapped in a cloud. 

“The blood is from your face and nose,” the man said. “I’m a doctor. I witnessed your crash. You’ve been unconscious for about two and a half minutes, and I’m staying right here until ski patrol arrives.”

It took considerably longer to understand that statement than it took you to read it.

There was a time when I hiked the Arbaney-Kittle trail almost every day, sometimes twice. One time in November, I headed up without traction devices for my shoes, thinking I could handle a little ice by being careful. Coming down, in a slot through the dark evergreens (you know the spot), the trail was covered in packed, icy snow for about 10 yards. Being a bit over-confident, my right leg lost traction, both legs went up in the air, and I totally relaxed, waiting for what could only be a hard fall as my back hit the trail. Not quite.  

I woke up sometime later with immense brain fog, that terrible feeling one gets after a concussion, not sure of where I was. My dog was whimpering for me, about ten yards above, on the trail, wondering if this was a new game we were playing. What the hell? In an unconscious state, I must have gotten up and fallen off the very steep bank below the trail. The dog was my one connection to reality.

Bleeding profusely, as head injuries typically do, I headed for the Midvalley Clinic, hoping a doctor friend could save me a trip to the hospital. The typical comment from folks I passed on the trail was, “OMG. You need help.”

The doctor was in Glenwood, the nurses said, and recommended I head for the Aspen hospital. They weren’t very friendly about my sitting in a chair, using Kleenex on my bleeding head. Finally, as I turned to leave, one of them said, “You can’t drive in your condition — you’ll need a ride.” 

“Lady, I drove here, and I can leave the same way. However, if you insist I can’t drive, you’ll have to loan me one of your brooms.” With that, one of them reluctantly walked me out to my Jeep and warned me to be careful.  

Looking back, I finally understood the surgeon’s question. It wasn’t football he was curious about. He was simply trying to determine how many times I’d rung the bell before that fractured C-3 landed me on his gurney. And I’ve only mentioned a few here.

Thank you to Tammy Ward of Montana for the column idea. Tony Vagneur writes here on every Saturday and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.