Saddle Sore: The coffee will still get poured

We were a unique crew, Friday ambassadors on Aspen Mountain, handing out coffee. Not so much a position, but a posture: welcoming, knowledgeable, steady. Answering questions about the weather, snow conditions, whatever else. There were four of us on Fridays: Bill Von Stocken, Deborah Katz, Darren Hodgson, and me, the history guy. Now, there are only three of us — Darren passed away last Saturday, Dec. 20.

It leaves a hole — Fridays will never be the same up there without Darren. Always pleased to see everyone, firm handshake, a welcoming voice, and a smile that always felt like it was meant just for you. “Yeah, I know that one,” he could be heard to say, with a unique chuckle, after hearing a story, or with a sideways, half-smile with raised eyebrows as he walked away.

We said goodbye to him last Friday afternoon, although we didn’t know it was goodbye. It was our annual Christmas, after work get-together, where a couple of us hand out some unique gifts, and the others, with always some amazement, appreciate the effort. Typical, ingrained camaraderie, developed over years of closeness on the mountain. Stories, drinks, hugs, handshakes, see you next week, and out the door in different directions.

Darren seemed to know just about everyone in town, so it really didn’t seem odd when my long-time friend, Jamie, whom I haven’t seen in about 20 years, called me on Saturday night to inform me of Darren’s passing. In the way of small towns, that friend knew Darren and I were friends, and he went to the heart of the matter. No! Impossible! We were just all together last evening. 

There was power in his skiing, matched quite well by his enthusiasm. Take a run with Darren, and it could be unique; he’d skied with kids on the mountain, not much more than a kid when he moved here from Valley Forge, knew the slang, unnamed names for runs that we’d used as kids. It could be a step back in time a bit and a few memories. If the snow was good and fresh, “Hey, let’s go ski Sunspot. Think anybody’s been in Hump’s Dump? Let’s hit it.” Hidden, off-beat trails hiding in plain sight — not many know where they are. And not many can ski them. 

His reach was wide. Watching one of my granddaughter’s lacrosse games a couple of years ago, Darren snuck up behind me, “What are you doing here? Got grandkids playing?” Yessir! “Check this referee out, Darren. Not only good-looking, but she is damned good at her job.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’ll introduce you at half-time — that’s my daughter.” He was proud of his family — his wife, daughter, and son. Kids coming by the embassy at the top of the mountain all seemed to know Darren — and he knew them. And it wasn’t just “Hi.” He’d ask about their latest project, what they’d been skiing, took a real interest in their lives.  

As I write this, the day before Christmas, this coming Friday will be different. An empty spot, a place the regulars will immediately miss before getting a cup and heading up the stairs. Some will know; others will not. But the coffee will still be getting poured, many questions about the mountain will still be asked, but it will be difficult. 

The Song of Aspen Mountain, there before any of us, with a melody all its own, will notice that someone is missing, a certain joie de vivre is not there. Darren was part of the mountain, part of the culture, and his personality will be missed. The rest of us, dedicated to our partner’s memory, will carry on, whether we want to or not.

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

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