Vagneur: Going through the ‘cuttings file’

They moved effortlessly, three of them, along the creek bottom: a mother and her cubs. The mission may have been serious, looking for food, or perhaps a scouting undertaking, but to the questioning mind, it was clear only the three of them knew what they were doing.

Leaned against a comfortable rock looking down on the scene, it was interesting to watch, but to this observer, curiosity about what they may have been thinking carried the mood. We think we’re so smart, have a sense of consciousness, excellent thought processes, what could a bear possibly be thinking in the wild other than the daily tasks of survival? We might be surprised. 

Going through the “cuttings file,” I came up with a few bits and pieces that never made a column but provided insight and helped my thoughts along the way. Such as: “Reading some Aspen history, I’m thinking that much of this history is correct and very interesting, but some of it is just a regurgitation of incorrect detail or superfluous legend, poorly reiterated by writers too lazy to verify facts or with the sole intent of embellishing reality.”

“A guy stopped me the other day on the street whom I haven’t seen in probably twenty years, even though we live within a short bike ride of each other. In addition to his outstretched hand, there was a look in his eyes that said he didn’t quite believe that I could look so ragged, but then again, I suspect my gaze gave off similar waves.”

“The first time I met Erik (Peltonen), a sweet young thing and I were walking by the Red Onion when, from inside, Ulfar Skaeringsson yelled out the door, ‘Hey, cowboy, get your f***king ass in here.’ Oh sure, this ought to be fun, I thought, but went in with a bit of curiosity. Sitting at the first booth with Ulfar, a long-time friend, was Erik, whom I barely knew. Erik said, ‘Oh, it’s you. We were going to tease you like crazy, but I’ve watched you on the trail crew. You’re a good skier — sit down with your lady, and have a beer.’ How many beers we had together over the years couldn’t be counted, but we kept tabs on each other as we slowly cut back and, finally, before it was too late, turned into practical teetotalers.”

“To extrapolate that out a bit, some of us can say that by living here in the mountains, we have a sense of ownership about the place we call home. Don’t ask me to move to Nebraska or Boston; I’m hefted to Aspen, to the Roaring Fork Valley, and I’m not leaving.”

“The other night, a lady called, wanting to know if we had any cattle drives coming up? And would I take her? We don’t usually plan cattle drives ahead of time but do them on a case-by-case basis. I suggested she get a job on a cattle ranch, sort of grab a front row seat for all the action, if you know what I mean. That went over like a lead balloon.”

“Think of the Utes around Hayden (and that country) when the whites came — they found their way of life affected, not overnight, but their trips to Denver became a dangerous journey, encroaching white people pushed the Native people harder and harder until unforced murders occurred — it’s the same when a bulldozer flattens a piece of ground for a new housing development or a solar array or whatever …” 

“Knowing they were high on that mountain, I’d whistle and call Willie’s name. Soon, the sound of horses on the move could be heard, and within seconds, they would be galloping down the hillside, charging along through the oak brush lining the trail. Their location could almost be pinpointed by witnessing the occasional ricocheting sparks as their shoes sporadically hit large rocks.”

“A few years ago, a female wild turkey (not the kind behind the bar, come on), somehow got separated from the rest of her flock and spent the winter just below the summer road, tucked into Mooney’s Woods. At the end of the day, I’d scoot by there and throw her a little cereal or corn from The Sundeck.”

“It’s an old copy, done in the 40′ or 50’s, showing a lone wolf high on a hill above a lonely homestead down below.  Light shines through the windows of the house as the wolf howls toward a starry, black sky, his breath solidly reflected by the cold night air. This painting, which hung in my grandmother’s house until the end, was my favorite from the time I can remember.  An exact replica hangs in a tiny, smoked fish shop on the way to Ely, Minnesota, home to more than a few wolves.”

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.