Saddle Sore: Wouldn’t trade it for anything

Last week at the hospital, Thursday the 18th, the Aspen Historical Society and Aspen Valley Health hosted an excellent program on the history of health care in the valley. Amy Honey gave a compelling presentation on Aspen’s first 100 years of health care, followed by a panel of doctors and administrators who brought it into the present day. Quite interesting.

My association with Aspen Valley Hospital came about easily enough. A phone call from Fred Braun — founder of Mountain Rescue, father of the Braun Hut System, and instigator of Aspen’s first ambulance service — did it. Fred’s oldest daughter, Sigrid, had married my cousin David E. Stapleton, so Opa figured me to be part of the family and that I ought to contribute. Yessir! I wasn’t going to argue.

“I’ve enrolled you in the first Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) class at the hospital,” he said. “Get that certification, then you can work one night a week as an emergency room attendant and ambulance aide. A sheriff’s deputy will drive the ambulance — it’s parked behind the courthouse.”

That opened the door to many adventures, some good, some ugly. The ski patrol was on strike, so I had time to manage the volunteer job. With the EMT certification, Mountain Ambulance hired me as a full-time driver, which paid the rent.

My first ambulance call sent fear through my heart — exactly where behind the courthouse was the ambulance? I ripped over in my VW Bug just in time to see the garage door fly up. Getting in with the driver, the door began sliding down just as we left, smashing the lights on top of our rig. The driver stopped. “We can’t go without lights. We’re through.”

With a brashness only a 20-something could muster: “The hell we can’t. We don’t need those friggin’ lights. Someone needs our help. Let’s go.” We went.

Along with ambulance duty, I got to work with the emergency room nurses, Rita Marsh in particular. Rita kept a tight rein on things, and at first, she might have been giving me the evil eye — “I hope this guy doesn’t get in the way.” But, soon enough, we developed a trust, and she was great at asking me to help in various ways. It felt good.

One night, she had been in the charge room for a long time with the door closed. Curiosity piqued, I asked what was going on. Soon she wandered over, disgust written on her face: “You can go in there and hold ice on his balls for a while. Stop the bleeding.”

In my smooth, conversational tone, I got him to admit he’d received a vasectomy that day and, full of newfound freedom and excitement, had gone home to his wife to “try it out.” Well, duh. There ought to be an award for that. And then there was the night a friend came in with a deep, hunting-arrow wound in his thigh. “How’d you do that?” “I ain’t talking,” he replied.

A couple of days a week, I was sent to the Snowmass Clinic with Mountain Ambulance. Dr. Hal Lutz, the orthopedic surgeon, soon became a friend. My interest in medicine was strong, and before long, he was trusting me to stitch lacerations, prepare lower-leg fractures for casting, help with dislocations, and handle other emergencies. I loved those days. When I mentioned it to an old family friend, he offered to pay my way through medical school. However, sometimes life gets in the way.

Fred Braun started attaching me to Mountain Rescue, asking me to saddle up some horses and head into the high country to haul people out — dead or alive. My cousin Don Stapleton sometimes helped. About two years into that, Fred called and asked if I was getting paid enough through the sheriff’s office. “What? We get paid for this?” I thought it was just a humanitarian service.

Soon the ski patrol called. I was back on the mountain, got engaged, and — just today — went through a few cherished memories.

Thinking back, I smile. It was a messy, unpredictable apprenticeship in life, yet somehow we managed to do some good. Talking about the hospital today, I remember the ambulance lights we didn’t have, the patients who taught me lessons, and the friends who trusted me. A wild ride, but a good one — a chapter of Aspen and my life I wouldn’t trade for anything.

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.