A humorous look at experiences and life in the military. How true are these stories – it depends on how much you’ve had to drink. (tag line)
If you’re telling war stories, you’re buying the beer. If not, then I’m staying right here on the couch.
Marine Corps School of Ski Instruction
We were standing in line, shivering in the cold on a bright sunny morning, with the temperature barely in the teens. But then, this was the Marine Corps Winter Combat Training Course and I was excited because I was going to have my first skiing lesson. Our instructor glided to a spot about twenty feet in front of the group.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed. “Welcome to the United States Marine Corps School of Ski Instruction. Those big things on your feet are skis. The long things in your hands are ski poles. The white stuff on the ground is snow. That thing over there is a tree. Don’t hit the tree. Congratulations, you have completed the United States Marine Corps Schools of Ski Instruction. Now, everyone turn to your right.”
This may seem harsh, but the Marine Corps is not known for warm fuzzies and gentle instruction. But here we were learning to ski after a minute and a half of instruction. Still, I felt ready and eager for the challenge.
We all turned to the right, and the instructor showed us how to walk with our skis. We were shown how to walk sideways and how to walk with a “V” by turning the front of our skis outward. For the next hour, we worked to master these two skills. Instead, we managed to master the skill of going downhill backwards and getting tangled as our skis crossed each other. Then the instructor showed us how to glide over the snow for cross-country skiing. A skill we managed to turn into the ability to run into each other with great frequency. The final skill our instructor attempted to impart to us was how to point the toes of our skis in so that we could slow down or stop when going down a hill. I was unaware that our feet could actually cross and somehow we managed to go faster downhill. I did notice our instructor did not show us how to fall down. It seems we mastered that skill all on our own. Our major accomplishment was no one had managed to stab any one with the ski poles.
We migrated to a field where we practiced gliding for cross-country skiing. Our first attempt resulted in Marines running into each other. At one point we looked like a platoon of Marines in a giant pile of pick-up sticks. Someone pointed out we were really bad at skiing. Someone else pointed out the snow was cold and wet. A third person pointed out it was time for lunch.
Before long, we were able to make it around the field without any serious problems or injuries; so the instructor felt it was time for something more challenging. We took off on a trail through the woods. For the most part, the terrain was flat and we were able to make some progress. Then we came to the hill. We were to practice the techniques we had been taught earlier to make it to the top of the hill. This meant for us, we spent more time going downhill backwards than we did going uphill. Our instructor showed us how to use a zigzag pattern of skiing to one side of the trail, stopping, turning 180 degrees by hopping on the skis, then skiing to the other side of the trail. After an hour of being pin-ball Marines, bouncing from one side of the trail to the other, we finally made it to the top. The fact that it would have taken us only ten minutes to walk up to the top of the hill was irrelevant.
After we conquered this monument to Mother Nature, our instructor had another brilliant idea; either that or he relished the idea of us living life dangerously. He wanted us to ski down the hill. I do not know why this came as a surprise to me. After all, there is only way to get off a hill, and that is to go down it. One by one, we started down the slope. Soon it was my turn and I was celebrating my accomplishment of swooshing down the hill. I was proud of skill and ability until the trail curved and there stood a tree in my way. I started to will the tree to move. In my mind I kept repeating move the tree, move the tree, move the tree. Soon I was actually yelling out loud. The tree was not moving. Someone yelled back for me to shift my weight so I could turn the skis. I bent to the left, shifting my weight to my left side, I was actually starting to turn. I would be okay. I would miss the tree.
The tree moved. Honestly, the tree moved right into my path. I did everything I could to avoid it, but I ran smack into it, knocking me off my feet. I’m not sure how one of my skis ended up in the tree. The worst part, I was still attached to the ski. I think the lower branches pushed it up there just so I couldn’t get down without some help. I do know that while I was battling the tree for my survival, I had this sudden overwhelming desire to give up skiing.
Someone came up and asked if I was okay. At least I think that was what he was saying. Hanging upside down in a tree made it really hard for me to answer coherently. Before I could answer, the tree spat me out onto the ground. The instructor informed me I would have to go back to the medical clinic where they could check me out and maybe take some x-rays. I was really disappointed that he hadn’t made this suggestion before I had gone up the hill.
Turns out I was just banged up, no serious injuries, except to my pride and ego. I do know that the next time they asked for volunteers for winter combat training, I signed up for desert survival school.