The Pittsburgh Press (February 3, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
TIMBERLINE LODGE, Ore. – Let it be known that henceforth – anyhow for a week or 10 days – the author of this column shall be referred to as Ernst Otto Sven Pyle, familiarly called “Swish” by his intimates.
No, I am not turning Quisling or Nazi spy. It’s just that for an interlude my talents will be devoted to the slipping and sliding pastime of skiing, so of course I must have an Old-World name. The “Swish” refers to my here-he-comes-there-he-goes aspect (I hope).
I have been planning this winter sports spasm for three years – and managing to sneak out of it every year before this. You know me; I’m a tropical beachcomber at heart. I like to be hot, and to hell with the tang and exhilaration of frosty mornings and snowy slopes.
But this winter I got trapped. The Japs cut me off from my idyllic winter among the Balinese maidens. And here was I, left hanging high and dry in the Northwest, staring snow-covered Mt. Hood in the face. There seemed no way out but to ski out.
I’ve never had on a pair of skis in my life. Now that the time is nigh, putting on skis is the one thing in this world I do not wish to do. A man of my age! It is ridiculous. I might better take piano lessons or start college again, than try to learn to ski.
But the Timberline Lodge people saw that I was cornered, and threw their hooks into me. It was come up and ski, or else. My ski debut was all set for two weeks ago, on my way north. They almost got me then. But at the last minute I phoned and said I had to see about a bomber in Seattle right quick. It was a close shave.
I thought of going back south by way of Kansas City and El Paso, in what could be called a wide arc around Mt. Hood. But that would have taken too much rubber off my last set of tires. And I figured they’d catch me sooner or later, anyway, so maybe I might as well ski before my bones got even more brittle.
He tries to muster courage
So I drove back through Portland. I stopped there for a last deep breath. For two days I’ve been down in Portland (ah, sweet Portland, only 65 miles away!) trying to muster up the courage to come up here and face my Armageddon.
The thing actually became a horror to me. Last night I had nightmares of Japs by the thousands diving out of the skies at me – not in planes, but on skis. I saw the thing was getting out of control. I knew it was now, or the booby-hatch for me. So here I am.
I have not yet been on skis. I’m working into it gradually.
You really don’t know what it is for a man approaching his dotage to face the horror of getting out on skis for the first time before a mountain-full of agile young ski fiends.
Until yesterday noon, my fear was largely devoted to the prospect of people laughing at me. That in itself is one of the worst fears on earth. But now I have a tangible fear.
For yesterday noon George Henderson came in to my hotel in Portland to have lunch with me. Mr. Henderson is connected with Timberline Lodge in a promotion way. Mr. Henderson is a young and handsome man of the athletic type, and one of Oregon’s better skiers himself.
An expert breaks his leg
And Mr. Henderson arrived at my door – get this straight, mind you – Mr. Henderson arrived at my door with his left leg in a cast. Yes, he broke it skiing!
It was the second break in two years for Mr. Henderson’s leg. He seemed to think nothing of it at all. He says practically everybody who skis has broken a leg.
He seems to think it a constructive idea, for when you break your leg it’s stronger where you break it than it was before. You get the impression that Mr. Henderson would like both his legs broken every half inch from his toes to his hips.
Mr. Henderson’s arrival was my first contact in a long, full and pleasant life with anybody who had ever been on skis. It was my initiation to the true skier’s attitude toward the subject of life and limb. So sorry to have met you, Mr. Henderson. Drop in again after your next break. Or perhaps we’ll see each other in the morgue. Goodbye, Mr. Henderson.
As I say, I’ve not yet been on skis. I’m just talking and stalling, like a child who feigns interest in everything around the room to keep from going to bed. My mind jumps and darts at possible excuses to get out of the whole thing.
I escaped it today by saying I had to get “oriented.” A man should never ski off in all directions before he knows where he is. I’m engineer-minded, and I want to look the ground over, and see the condition of the snow, and test the wind, and…
It suddenly occurred to me that I have no skis. A perfect out. I rushed down to the instructor and said “Well, Olaf, this breaks my heart, but the whole thing’s off. I have no skis.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Olaf. “They’ve got lots of skis here to rent. And everything else – boots, pants, jackets, mittens. You don’t have to buy anything.”
That ruse didn’t work, so I hit on the scheme of carrying on a distracting non-stop conversation, not giving Olaf a chance to say a word, until it was too late to ski.
Maybe I could filibuster him. Maybe, by reading him the Bible or constantly reciting poems, I could hold his interest for several days. And then suddenly, a week from today, I’d look at my watch and say, “Goodness me, here it is Tuesday and I’m due in Portland in two hours. Thanks a lot and goodbye, old fellow. I’ll be skiing you.” (Somebody will hang me for that one.)
But I guess it’s no use. Tomorrow I face my doom. If there’s no column tomorrow, you’ll know what happened. Please omit flowers.