Starting in 1971

I have always been fascinated by technology, hence my chosen career.  As far back as I can remember technology was more than just a fascination, it became a compulsion.  As a child I stared in a couple of television commercials which gave me the means to dabble in toys and technologies.

In 1971 Bowmar/Ali Inc. (USA) was marketing a new technology.  It was the first electronic calculator and although its functions were limited to add, subtract, multiply and divide it was still the most revolutionary product on the market at that time.  I had to have and I knew someone who had already purchased one.  Temple Allen was the owner of The Hickory House at the time and he had picked one up during a trip home to Texas.  As soon as I saw it I immediately began the process to convince Temple to sell it to me.  Resistance was futile and in just a few weeks I became to new owner of my very own “Bowmar Brain.” 

I took my new toy to school and was immediately the center of the known universe.  Everyone wanted to check it out including the teachers.  Unfortunately, being able to use it in class was immediately banned and the toy was no longer a welcome guest.  Within 6 months calculators began to flood the market and with them the prices plummeted.  I paid nearly $250.00 for my Bowmar brain and a year later you could get a Casio Electronics calculator that did a lot more for less than $75.00.  Today you can get one by simply signing up for Sports Illustrated.

Not to sit back and let the technology world pass me by, I was on the hunt for the next great gadget and I did not have to wait long.  It happened in February 1973 when I went to visit my friend, Cary Guy.  His father, Peter had a business partner in a restaurant and he was in town visiting.  George Randall was a fan of all things new and different and on his wrist he was sporting a new watch.  It was called the Pulsar stainless steel P2 and it was the first LED watch ever made.  To make it even cooler, you set it by holding a small magnet next to it.  This was the watch James Bond wore in the first half of “Live and Let Die” until he replaced it with a magnet Rolex.

Again, I had to have it and when George told me what it would cost I went directly to The Bank of Aspen and got the cash.  Once again I was the center of attention at school the next day, only this time there was no reason for the teachers to ban my toy as it did not help me do anything but tell the time.  This watch was only able to display hours, minutes and seconds so the technology was soon to be replaced by more functional timepieces. 

I still own this watch and recently ordered an adapter for the batteries since the size of batteries it was originally designed to use are no longer manufactured.  As a matter of fact, I still have my “Bowmar Brain” as well.

In time, if you will pardon the pun, I purchased a number of LCD watches over the years as they progressed through the technology curve.  At one point I even had a solar powered LCD watch.  Ironically, in about 1985 I started wearing analog watches and have done so ever since. 

If you were to look back into my past you would know that my proclivity to get new technologies has never abated.  In computers I have owned 8088, 8086, XT, AT, 286, 386, 486 and Pentium models and even a Mac at one point.  I have owned 8-track tapes, saw the arrival of cassette tape players and was an early adopter of music compact discs.  I am not attempting to gloat about this, in fact if you think about the time and effort I have invested to stay ahead of the curve, many might think of it as a psychosis.

March 1969

The day had gone well for me.  I had just finished first in a ski race and I was heading down for the day.  My friend, T.K. Rowhan, who was not in the day’s race decided to join me on my last run down.  In late March, nearing the end of the season, a number of runs were already showing bare dirt; so, we had to pick the best runs to get us down without tearing our skis up in the process.

 As we cleared the midway chairlift station we headed straight down Baby Doe.  Near the bottom of Baby Doe someone had spread some straw to cover rocks and dirt right where the stream crossed the run.  This time of year, every year, the stream began to run melting the snow in the process.  Seeing the straw, I did not give it much thought as I sped up.  When I hit the bottom my skies stopped dead in their tracks and my momentum carried me on.      

In an instant I was thrown out of my skies as I continued to summersault down the run and out onto Homestead Road.  When I came to rest I knew something was wrong.  Although I could move my toes, my leg was laying there in a position that was not normal.  My right foot was bent back with my toes pointed straight at my face, just inches away.  I knew then that I had broken my leg.

Laying there, waiting for the patrol to come get me, I asked T.K. to loosen my boot as it was really starting to hurt.  As he bent over he could see a large bump in my ski pants just above my boot. “What’s that?” as he bent down to touch it. “Oh, that can’t be good!” as he went to unbuckle my boot.  A man standing near by shouted, “Stop! It looks broken and you could make it worse.”

I am not sure how long it took for the Ski Patrol to show up.  It seemed like forever, but in reality I am sure it was only a few minutes as their lower patrol shack was only a couple hundred feet back up the mountain.  They carefully bundled me up and placed me in the toboggan for my journey to Aspen Valley Hospital.  The hospital was located at the base of Red Mountain and the time it took to get me there was plenty long enough for my mother and Doctor Baxter to arrive before me.

Doctor Baxter had x-rays taken and quickly determined that I had a compound fracture of the Tibia and a spiral break of the fibula.  The Tibia had just broken the skin but was not clearly sticking out.  Heavily sedated, Doctor Baxter put a large plaster cast on my leg that ran from just above my toes all the way up to just under my butt. 

I spent the night in the hospital sharing a room with Ollie Westerland.  As it turned out he had suffered the same fate as me while skiing at Highlands.  My break was good enough that I had to wear casts for the next seven months.  They did not slow me down much during the summer as I broke a number of them while riding my bicycle or climbing the crab apple tree in our front yard. 

Still sporting a cast the following fall when I returned to school, I was immediately harassed as if I was wearing the cast for sympathy from my classmates.  When I finally got the last cast removed everyone knew just how bad it was.  The bone had healed slightly crooked and you could still see where it almost came out of my skin.   Needless to say, I was back skiing and racing that following season.

Winter 1976 – Snowmass Ski Area

Paul Wirth and I both spotted them from a distance.  We were on the prowl and looking for dates to go listen to Twerp Anderson and his band at the Stonebridge that evening.  My plan was to impress the blond one while Paul had his sights on the brunette.  They were definitely “out of towners” which was important for our plan to work as the local girls knew us and in most cases already had dates.  Besides, they were our friends and it was more fun to go meet the tourist girls.    Paul Wirth and I used to ski together a lot and we tried all kinds of ways to impress the girls.  We had resorted to acting like we could not ski, tried fake foreign accents and even pretended to be from out of town ourselves.  Sometimes these antics worked and sometimes not.  But on this day we could actually show off our real abilities and “get the girls.”

We both headed down the run named, “Moonshine” in pursuit of our prey.  We were already impressed that the girls skied well enough to go down the blue runs as it would be much harder to show off on the green trails.  As we headed down, we were looking good and carving perfect turns.  We made sure we passed in front of them close enough to get noticed.  We knew we were good enough to impress them and felt sure our evening dates were all but assured.  Nearing the bottom of the run, with our future dates trailing behind, it happened.

Paul went left and I went right, with big carving turns and a high rate of speed we collided at a closing rate of 30 plus miles per hour.  I am sure once the powder settled back to earth it looked like a train wreck had just occurred.  Skis and poles were strewn all over the bottom of the run.  I came to rest about 30 feet from Paul and we were both dazed from the impact.  As we laid there collecting our thoughts the two girls skied up and asked us if we were ok.  Seconds later they skied off, thoroughly impressed I am sure.   

Later that night we ran into the young ladies at the Stonebridge.  By then they had found dates, worse than that, their dates were “out of towners” as well.  This kind of activity is normal in any sort of resort community where the local boys try to “pick up” the female visitors and then wonder why the female classmates won’t have anything to do with them the rest of the year.  I guess this is how it has always been and always will be.

Good luck boys, and don’t do anything stupid!

Summer 1972

The United Airlines Boeing 727 taxied up to the gate at Walker Field in Grand Junction having just arrived from Denver.  Our flight would take us to Los Angeles International with a brief stop-over in Las Vegas.  As we boarded the aircraft I asked if I could get a tour of the cockpit but due to the lateness of our flight I was turned down.

This was my first ride in a jet and I was excited to put it mildly.  Our trip was for the kids in my family to go to California and spend a week with the Cunninghams and Varians.  The four of us would be traveling without our parents on board. Our hosts had lots planned for us to do including a few nights in Newport Beach where they had rented a house on Lido Island.  We would even be going out on the Laura Scudder Family yacht.  The Scudder family was known for their potato chips, peanut butter and mayonnaise.  Her son was a friend of the Cunningham’s and offered to take us out for an evening cruise around the harbor.  We waved good-bye to our parents and were off to California.  The flight to Las Vegas was fun but uneventful. 

While we were at the gate in Las Vegas a flight attendant came and got me, asking if I wanted to see the cockpit now.  I sat in the cockpit the entire time we were on the ground.  This 727 was new to United’s fleet and it had all of the latest technology.  Having never been aboard a jet before, all of the dials, gauges and knobs seemed like too much for these three pilots to manage.  There were separate dials and knobs for each engine and the man at “the desk” in the back of the cockpit tried to explain what everything on his panel did. 

When it was time for us to push back I got up to leave and was offered the chance to ride up front as we taxied out.  As we moved away from the terminal a lot was going on in the cockpit so I just sat quietly (that was a real test for me) and watched.  We taxied out to the end of the runway and came to a stop.  At that point the captain asked me to go ahead and return to my seat.

Just a few steps from the cockpit, the aircraft began its take-off roll.  By the time I was halfway back to my seat the nose of the plane was already lifting off the ground as the center isle got steeper and steeper.  I practically fell into my sister’s lap as I got to our row near the rear of the plane. 

The week went by and soon we were returning back to Colorado.  The following winter we reciprocated by having the Varians and Cunninghams out for a week to ski with us.  My experience in the cockpit is something that my children will never experience; the world is a different place now. 

Spring/Summer 1964

There are so many stories that can be told about Aspen Airways and all of the successes and tragedies it went through during its years of operations.  Like the time the pilot was being so careful to go through the landing check list that he forgot to put the landing gear down.  How about the moment that Walter Paepcke knew that Bert Simons was running the airline so well he decided to make it a full-fledged airline?  Prior to that, Aspen Airways operated as the flight department for the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies. 

The airline owned a number of different aircraft over the years, starting with a small fleet of Used DC-3’s.  They proved so successful that they worked themselves out of a job.  The airline replaced the DC-3’s with Convairs, first the Model 240, then upgraded to the 340’s and eventually the modified 340’s known as JetProp 580’s.  These, too, would pass and eventually be replaced with BAe 146 4-engine jets.  Now that you know a bit more about the airline, we need to rewind back to the days when the airline operated the Douglas DC-3’s.

The summers were slow for the airline especially in the spring known as the “off season.”  Aspen Airways was an “unscheduled” airline at the time.  That meant it did not have to fly if there were no customers.  Often the schedule would be modified so they could make their flight to and from Denver only once there were enough people needing a ride.

In the spring of 1964 I remember going out to the airport to see a family friend, Richard J. “Dick” Bird, who flew for the airline.  He had promised to give us a tour of the DC-3 that was in the hangar.  On this particular day we were told not to go near the left engine.   With our tour underway, midsentence I could wait no longer, I had to know why we could not go near that engine.  Had Captain Bird not said anything about it at all, I would have never given the left engine a thought, but now it was off limits and I had to know why. 

Small airlines back then did things their way.  It was a “kinder, gentler” industry back in the 1960’s and Aspen Airways was no exception.  Captain Bird informed us all that a bird had nested in the left engine’s oil cooler intake.  Since the airline was not busy this time of year and they had other DC-3’s they could use.  They decided to hangar this bird until those birds had hatched and moved on.  In an emergency, they would simply move the nest for the duration of the flight and put it back.  But as luck would have it, the nest was never disturbed.

Now that’s a bird of another feather.

Summer 1977

The Rolls-Royce eased into its regular spot in front of the Inn at Aspen around 4:00pm like it does almost every day.  This was a 1958 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith and it was in mint condition.  The owner was well known and had lived in the valley for decades.  D.V. Edmundson was a former Navy officer and local coupon clipper.  He was well liked and also well known for his daily cocktails.  He preferred the Inn at Aspen, where the St. Regis (former Aspen Ritz Carlton) now sits, but also frequented the Chart House bar nearby.

His home was the Waterfall House up Castle Creek that was designed for him by Fritz Benedict in 1963.  Each afternoon he would head into town for drinks and sometimes dinner.  You could also catch him in his Rolls-Royce about town during the day running errands and making a rare social call.

On this day I happened to pull into the parking lot right behind him on my way to go visit my friend Susan Melville over at the Mountain Chalet.  D.V. and I had met on a number of occasions when I would be out for dinner or drinks with my grandmother.  He was always very friendly and a perfect gentleman.  As we both got out of our cars, he from his Rolls and me from my 1954 Willys Jeep, I asked if he minded if I took a look inside.  With a toss of the keys, “Take her for a spin and bring me the keys when you get back.”

There were a lot of firsts running through my mind as I climbed in: first time I have ever been inside a Rolls, first time I ever driven a Rolls, and if I was not careful it would also be the first time I ever wrecked a Rolls.  Needless to say, I was excited for the chance to drive this thing.  My first thought after I got seated was the size of the front hood.  How on God’s green earth did D.V. drive this after a drink or two?  The hood seemed to go on forever and there were more blind spots and hidden obstacles than I could count.  I had only been driving for just over a year at this point and was not about to tell D.V. that little “fun fact.”

I headed out of the parking lot and headed up South Mill Street.  I was going to pick a route that I knew well and that had very few obstacles for me to have to contend with.  When I reached the Fasching Haus condominiums I turned and headed down Galena Street and turned back towards the bar on Dean Street.  My entire trip was less than a half mile but worth every inch.

I walked in to the bar and spotted D.V. down at the far end.  As I approached he asked me if the car was still in one piece which of course it was, thankfully.  He also asked what I was doing back so soon.  He was willing to let me take it again for an hour or so but I respectfully declined.  I had cheated disaster and was not willing to chance it.

D.V. lived in Aspen the rest of his life, driving to and from the Waterfall House in his Rolls-Royce every day.  We visited a number of times over the years although I never again asked to drive his car.  I am not sure whatever became of the Rolls-Royce after D.V.’s passing, but as far as I know, it is no longer in the valley.  Little did D.V. know, the day he let me drive his car would make a lasting memory for me and it was just a passing moment for him. 

Thanks D.V.!