1960s and 70s

In the early days of skiing riding the chair lifts took up a large portion of your day. Back then only two people, and sometimes only one, rode in each chair. The chairs were also spread a good distance apart from one-another as were the towers that held the cable and chairs above the ground. The speed of the chair lifts was a constant “slow” and that gave many of the kids way too much time to sit around and be up to “no good” while waiting for their arrival to the top.

One of the more strictly enforced rules when riding a chair was that the riders were forbidden to bounce the chairs, but we did it anyhow. The fun of it was to get the chairs ahead of you to bounce as much as possible and then watch the mayhem ensue as they approached the next tower. The closer they got to the tower the faster and more violently they would bounce up to the point the chair reached the first guide wheel and then it would abruptly stop bouncing. As a passenger in the bouncing chairs it was your job to hold on for dear life or risk being thrown out of the chair and plummeting to the ground below.

In the mid-1960s with the “hippy” era in full swing Aspen had its fair share of the “peace loving, pot smoking” individuals, many of which were hard-working adults most of the time but loved to get high smoking pot on their off hours. These same individuals were avid skiers and chose to smoke their wackie-tobackie while enjoying the great outdoors. They were an easy target…

Back to chair bouncing. It was no fun anymore to try to bounce your friends in the chairs ahead of you as they were expecting it and always got even on the next trip up the mountain. But we had new victims in the form of our local and visiting Potheads and they made it fun. We would intentionally spread out in the lift lines in order to put some potheads in the chairs ahead of us. The bouncing worked best in the gaps between towers that were the biggest and those were usually somewhere in the middle of the ride up. Unprepared for what was about to strike they continued their smoking ways while riding to the top. Just as soon as our chair cleared the tower we would start the process to get the chairs bouncing, first they would ride up and down in big, smooth arcs and our task was to make the arcs as big as possible. Once accomplished we would sit back and watch as the chair ahead of us approached the tower and began to bounce violently, the occupants just now realizing that they needed to hold on tight, not an easy task for someone high as a kite. The closer it got to the tower the more we laughed at the sheer terror of the potheads ahead of us as they experienced Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

The beauty of being high on pot is that you also tend to be very forgetful which gave us ample time to set them up for the next tower and another wild ride. On some occasions they would wait for us at the top and let us know how they really felt but often enough they did not realize it was us causing the problem in the first place.

We never did cause any of them to fall out of the chair but many came close and even more avoided riding that particular chair lift the rest of the day, blaming their predicament on the lift itself.

On one occasion we did actually meet with more success than we ever intended. On that particular ride the chair ahead of us was empty and we quickly learned that the seat, which folds up at night to keep it from icing up or collecting snow would bounce up and down along with the chair and even fold up if done just right. We had a new game when there were no human victims ahead of us. On that day, much to our surprise the seat not only folded up but actually fell off the chair frame and plummeted to earth. These seats were covered in nylon and this one landed nylon side down and immediately began sliding down hill. Much to our surprise the seat picked up speed and eventually took out a skier, a pothead none-the-less… Game over!

1960 – 1980’s

Long before “LifeFlight”, “Flight for Life” or any of the other private operators of Medical Evacuation services existed there were the US Army MAST flights that paid Aspen a visit when needed.

MAST stands for Military Assistance to Safety & Traffic (US Army MEDEVAC civilian assistance) and it was a free service provided by the US Army.  The flights to Aspen came out of Fort Carson, near Colorado Springs.  The Military used these flights as a public service but also used them as training missions for their air-crews.  Often these flights took place late at night which only increased the training value of them.

The program was designed to help evacuate critically ill patients from remote locations and Aspen was no exception.  Although not a common occurrence, automobile or ski accidents, critical conditions or illnesses where victims needed medical care that the small staff was not able to render did occur.  In cases such as those, the Army was notified and a flight was dispatched.

The flights to and from Aspen back then were done with various models of the Bell UH-1 Iroquois “Huey” helicopters.  These were the same aircraft used in Vietnam and Korea around the same time.

You could hear the copters coming from great distances, especially in the still air of the cold winter nights.  You could also hear them coming because the pilots wanted you to.  It was possible to adjust the settings on the helicopter blades to make them relatively quiet from a distance but I think the air crews wanted their presence known.

From Aspen, the flights would take their passengers to Denver or on to Grand Junction where larger, better equipped facilities were available. 

Aspen had a history of numerous aircraft accidents in the high country back in the 1960 – 1980’s and the MAST flights were also used on occasion to extract the victims and their aircraft from the most remote locations.

A local Aspen Doctor was involved in the creation of St. Anthony’s “Flight for Life” program which eventually led to the elimination of the MAST flights to the High Country communities.

1960 – 1980’s

Aspen has always prided itself on its medical facilities and practitioners.  Due to the town’s remoteness to major medical facilities it had to get creative on how it treated its patients.  With no storage facilities or methods to extract, catalog and maintain an adequate supply of blood, they resorted to the method of a Walking Blood Bank. 

A Walking Blood Bank was nothing more than a list of the locals willing to donate on a moment’s notice.  The list included all of the contact information, blood types and other important facts like the last time a donation was made.  From there the participants went on living life as usual. 

On numerous occasions I remember the phone ringing late at night followed by the sound of my father getting dressed and heading out the back door.  On some of those times I know he had been out with friends earlier in the evening and certainly must have still be feeling the effect, none-the-less, the hospital was glad to get his donation.  My father has a rarer blood-type and when they called him it was because someone needed exactly what he had.  

My father used to talk of how these calls were really a social event in themselves.  When blood was needed the hospital staff called everyone who was available, assuming they had not given blood recently, and the emergency room soon filled up with friends and family all there to do their part.  I never once heard the name of a recipient; I supposed that really did not matter as long as they got what they needed. 

I am sure that the Aspen Valley Hospital did not invent this walking storage method but it sure served their purpose until the technology caught up with the demand and other methods of getting blood to where it was needed were developed.  Just about the time I was old enough to go on the list, the system was abandoned.

 Life in a small town, never a dull moment.

1960’s

 It was a twice annual migration across McLane Flats, up Cemetery Lane and into town.  From the West end of town the heard used Hopkins Street in order to avoid Main Street as the proceed out of town towards Independence Pass or up Aspen Mountain.  Besides Hopkins Street was narrower and made it easier for the Sheep Dogs to maintain control. 

A number of the ranchers down valley used the high country in the summer to graze the herds before taking them back home in the fall.  Some summers every valley up intendance pass was filled with sheep, sheep dogs and even Basque Sheep Herders.  Back then the Federal Government leased out grazing rights and the only efficient way to get the herds to the high mountain pastures was to drive them there, and I don’t mean in big trucks.

As kids we used to look forward to the twice annual visit of the flocks.  On a good visit the street were filled with droppings and all the weeds along the gutters and sidewalks were gone.  Watching the sheep dogs do their work was fascinating and the men on horses sparred little time to answer questions from the ever growing crowds of spectators.

One year tragedy struck right out in front of our house.  During a minor stampede, if that is what sheep do, a lamb was injured in the melee.  The herd pressed on and the little guy just laid there in the street.  Bellowing out for his mother, who was nowhere in plain sight and with little notice from the working dogs or men on horseback, the lamb, was soon left behind.  My sister Debbie, who has always had a soft spot for animals jumped into action.

 First she ran to the aid of the lamb but soon learned that only served to scare him more.  Next she ran to our father insisting he help.  With the next herd only a few blocks behind, my father headed down the street in the direction of the approaching riders leading the way.  Within minutes a number of the cowboys arrived to see what, if anything could be done for the stricken animal.  Not long after that a pickup truck arrived and took the lamb off in the direction of his herd.

 My sister insisted on knowing what was to happen to the little lamb and was re-assured that not was really wrong and that the lamb would be re-united with his mother and be able to spend the rest of the summer in the high country with the rest of them.

By summer’s end, with the various herds returning to their respective farms the high country looked as well groomed as a golf course putting green.  Over the years the annual migration dwindled and by the early 1970’s only the Christiansen brothers continued to graze their sheep in the high country.  By mid-1970 the migrations had ended all together.  Progress had once again claimed another aspect of a quieter time in Aspen’s past.

1970’s

There was a time when the Maroon Bells were one of the most photographed places on earth.  In the middle of the summer, the parking lot up at the lake was always at capacity with more cars waiting at the entrance of the upper lot for the next available space.  There were tri-pods and expensive cameras everywhere.

The lower lot was reserved for hikers, many of which headed up the well-used trail to Crater Lake situated below the “bells” and above the Maroon Bells Lake.  Some of the hikers were taking on more challenging hikes like traversing West Maroon Pass, East Maroon Pass and even climbing the face of Pyramid Peak.  There were also about 100 small camping spots in and around both parking lots and these were almost always in use all summer long.

For the locals we just loved the un-fettered access we enjoyed going up to the “bells” at any hour of the day.  Some might say that it was even the site of many “submarine races” by the high school students.  Another fun activity was to ride our bike down from the upper parking area all the way back to town, approximately 12 miles in all.  Our parents took turns taking us up and dropping us off, most had pick-up trucks or other means of carrying half-dozen bikes at a time.

The trip down was 80 percent speed, 10 percent terror and 10 percent uphill.  The first part of the trip was a gradual downhill on nicely paved roads.  Then there was a section just below the lake where the road turned to a gravel surface for a few miles bordered by Cattle Guards on both ends.  Unfortunately, by the time you hit the first cattle guard and the ensuing gravel surface most of us were already doing 30 or 40 miles per hour.  Panic was our first order of business.  We all knew to expect that section of the road but it always arrived earlier than we expected.

The next couple of miles after the gravel was back to pavement and a gradual downhill, we once again picked up speed.  As we passed the T-Lazy 7 stables, tolerating the fresh odor of horses, our next obstacle was a short distance away.  As the road crossed over the Maroon Creek River it turned transitioned to a fairly steep uphill for the next half mile.  No matter how much speed we had as we crossed the river it was never enough to get very far up the hill before you had to start peddling again.

Exhausted and barely moving we finally crested the hill right next to The Heather Bed Lodge and Highlands Ski Area parking lot.  The remainder of the journey into town was uneventful with the exception of the volume of traffic on the road.  Back then the bike riders knew how to share the road with the cars.  Today bicycles seem to control the roads.  Also today, the access to the Maroon Bells is limited and usually requires a bus ride to the lake.

Late 1959 – 1963

The original place was known as the Ski & Spur and it was a sleepy little watering hole with more of a history than a future, or that was what most of the locals considered it to be.  It had its fair share of disputes, knuckle fests and tragedies but it also had a reputation for some of the best music and comedy acts anywhere in the country.  All of that was about to change in 1958 or 59 when Glen Yarbrough and his band, The Limelighters came to town.

Glen was a successful Folk singer with numerous hits spanning back to the early 1950’s.  By the time he came to town he and his band were a household name.  The first night they played to a packed house at the Ski & Sur and within a few months he acquired the place and renamed it the Limelight Lodge.  It only had three rooms and the bar, and on most nights the band used up all the rooms along with a few invited guests of the opposite sex.

At the same time, Glen purchased some land on highway 82 near Basalt where he and his father set up a nursery and floral business.  As it turned out, Glen may have helped pay for the business but he was rarely there.  With his late night activities up at the Limelight, he was rarely out of bed before noon only to head back to the bar for the next evening activities.

Before long Glen’s dad got to calling him “Lazy” Glen and the name stuck.  The business, Glen’s nursery, soon became known as The Lazy Glen.  Even after the business was closed and a trailer park erected in its place, it was called the “Lazy Glen Trailer Park” as it is still known to this day.

Back at the Limelight Glen started reaching out to some of his friends in the entertainment industry and many were eager to pay a visit.  Burl Ives became a regular visitor, as did John Denver, the Smothers Brothers and many local acts like Bert Dahlander & Ralph Sutton.  For a time the Smother’s Brothers supplemented their income working as busboys at the Limelight.

Sometime around 1963 Glen sold the Limelight to a local family.  Although no longer an owner he continued to make trips back to Aspen and perform at the Limelight.  Nina Paas and her family and the generations of Woolery/Pass to follow continued to own and operate the Limelight until it was sold in 2010 to the Crown Family, owners of the Aspen Ski Company.

John Denver played at the Limelight many times over the years as did the Smothers Brothers.  Sometime in the mid-sixties the Smothers Brothers were caught “red handed” with a stolen car.  The judge offered then two options leave town or go to jail.  They left the next morning.

Years later they moved back to town, part time, and even made as few appearances at the old Limelight.  The Limelight has such a colorful history it really deserves a book of its own and it could only be told by a member of the Paas family to do it any justice.

1970’s and beyond

Lou Willie was an accomplished artist and evidence of his work can be found all over Western Colorado. One of his favorite mediums was scrap iron and old chrome bumpers. Much of his work was bigger than life, like the buffalo that stood nearly 12 feet tall or the eagle with an eight foot wing-span, animals of all types with one thing in common, the chrome bumpers they were made from. These sculptures were grand in size and exact in detail.

The horse was no different as all the rest of his work, it was a beautiful sculpture. When Lou asked the City of Aspen if they were interested in acquiring the sculpture, it took no time for the city council to approve the purchase. It was at the same time that the downtown “core” area streets were being permanently closed off for the new pedestrian mall and the city fathers were looking for ways to “dress” it up with art of all types to go with the trees and flowers. The city wanted to crown the east end of the Cooper Street mall with this grand sculptor. Apparently little to no thought was given to its location and proximity to one of Aspen’s most famous watering holes and the characters that frequented such a place.

With the horse cemented firmly in place and the proud city leaders having gone home for the evening after celebrating their latest addition, the first of many “modifications” took place. The Onion was in full swing that evening, so when the men slipped out no one seemed to notice their absence; it was only after their return that people inquired as to where they had been. “We had an errand” replied one of them. “Went to the Eagle’s” replied another. All that mattered was that they were back and they were “buying.” Everyone was in a good mood, except…

The officers came through the swinging doors with a purpose, like many visits before; the patrons paid little attention to them and ignored them more once they started making demands. “Defacing public property” was the charge and they were looking for someone to pin it on.

At some point in the evening the “tin horse” had dropped a pile of manure under its tail. Real manure, not the “tin” type and the police were not very happy about it. Asking a bunch of drunken people who put the “crap” under the horse was a bad way to start any conversation. Before they were finished in frustration the officers got a quick lesson in the difference between horse manure and cow manure and somehow this horse had “crapped” cow manure.

Over the years, the horse took many “dumps” but the first one was the best and after a while the police finally stopped asking. The horse has moved on as have many of the old “Onion” patrons but the memories live on.