Carnes: The man, the myth, my reality

“I had been living in Aspen for two seasons, teaching skiing for the Aspen Ski School and waiting tables nightly at the Steak Pit restaurant. Around that time, Morrie Shepherd, a good friend I had worked for painting houses during the summer, was asked by Pete Seibert, his childhood friend, if he would come over and be the first ski school director at a new place called Vail. So Morrie, for reasons, well, reasons I don’t really know — I guess because we were friends — asked me to come over and be the assistant ski school director.”

And thus began my first official interview with Rod Slifer in the spring of 2012. 

The previous fall we were sitting together at a semi-private ski school party to celebrate Vail’s 49th anniversary (I say “semi” because I did not deserve to be in attendance, but my wife … well, you know), sharing a frosty mug when he commented, “I wish somebody would write about 1962 … and just 1962, because that year is when it all happened … when it all came together…”

Fortunately, he later allowed me to record his words, and the Vail Valley Magazine article came out the following winter for the 50th anniversary.

Although we had been friends since the mid-80s, I will never forget the renewed feelings of awe and wonder I felt for the man as he detailed not just 1962 but an incredible life filled with adventure, risk, and, of course, romance with his wife of over 40 years, the one and only amazing Beth Slifer.

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Much has been repeatedly said and written over the last week or so about Mr. Slifer and the fact that Vail would never have become “Vail” without him, so allow me to share a few personal moments over the years. 

To begin with, he would always correct me whenever I said, “Hello Mr. Slifer,” by reminding me, “Please, it’s Rod.” This went on for decades, continuing up until the last time we spoke, which was last spring walking down Bridge Street. I tried, but it never felt right, or perhaps respectful enough, to relegate greetings to such a prominent local figure to just three simple letters.

If only the rest of us could be so humble in life.

Beth and I served on several local boards together in the 90s, and Mr. Slifer would more often than not attend the connected social events. He became my go-to guy during those times when I wasn’t up to “networking” the crowd or being “networked” by said crowd. I would stand with him in a corner and people would pretty much stay away thinking we were discussing something important.

Our topics usually ranged from skiing to the weather.

About 20 years ago, in May of 2004, our local legend was taking a leisurely stroll down the middle of Gore Creek picking up trash (yes, in the water) when he tripped, snapping a wrist. At this exact same time, I was chasing an ambulance down I-70 with my bride and 5-year-old son inside, the latter which had fallen off a ladder (actually a jungle gym) and snapped his forearm.

Timing allowed the former mayor to grace magazine cover boy Dr. Sterett’s table first, but upon seeing it was our son next as he was wheeled out said, “Your turn!” with a wink and went back to enjoying anesthesia.

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Like Beth, Mr. Slifer (dammit, I mean Rod) never failed to say, “Hello Richard” whenever he’d see me, and that acknowledgment alone was more than enough to endear the man’s legacy in my mind.

To say Rod Slifer was not instrumental in making Vail more than just a name on a state highway mountain pass is like saying The Beatles was just the name of a band from Liverpool.

I was honored to call Rod a friend, and his name will forever be an integral part of the definition of “Vail.”

Richard Carnes, of Avon, writes weekly. He can be reached at poor@vail.net.