The Pittsburgh Press (February 10, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
TIMBERLINE LODGE, Ore. – These last few days, while dwelling on other things, we’ve sort of neglected my personal skiing. I mean neglected it in the column. But I’ve been right out there every day, laboring conscientiously.
The days are building up now, and it’ll soon be time to leave. And so far I haven’t learned how to do a thing. We’re still out on that same little slope, still trying to find out how to make “stem turns.”
I still can’t force myself to lean out on a turn – and when I do accomplish that violation of scientific balance I always fall on over in that direction.
I still get the tips of my skis crossed, which is comparable to having no legs at all. I still find my ankles so weak I can’t hold the skis out in a turn. I still get to going in the wrong direction and have to sit down quick to keep from running into somebody.
Maybe I could learn some day. I’m not sure. Certainly I can’t be accused of not persevering. I’m known around here as the guy who’s always down but never out.
One of the girls in our threesome class disappeared, leaving only one girl and myself. We are both tenacious students. We always show up at classtime, to plague Olaf with our ineptitudes, and we even stay out and practice after he’s gone.
He meets fellow student
For days I didn’t know this girl’s name, or where she was from, or anything about her. Finally it occurred to me that maybe I should get her identified, just in case of accident or something.
So after rolling down the same hill together for several days, we at last met in the Lodge, shook hands and introduced ourselves. Her name was Maureen Jackman. Mine was Ernst Otto Sve-- oh to hell with that, you know my name.
Maureen is from Spokane. She’s just a kid. She went one year to college, and then got a job as telephone operator in Spokane last summer. She loves to telephone-operate.
She got a week’s vacation after six months. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she went to the local travel agent, and wound up at Timberline on a four-day “tour.” She made the trip by bus. She has her own skis, and is determined to learn.
Maureen says she’s sore from head to foot from her falling-down bruises. But being young, her muscles don’t bother her a bit. It’s the opposite with me. My hide is wrinkled and tough and I don’t bruise easily. But oh those tendons of mine. Ouch!
Army uses good skiers
Maureen has never before been away from home on a big trip. She doesn’t know beans about traveling, so that gives me a chance to show off and help her out with little things – such as telling her how much to tip, and that there are Yellow Cabs in other cities besides Spokane, and that New Mexico is in the United States. I don’t think she believed it, though, when I said I’d been in England.
In a way, I feel badly about Maureen’s vacation. It has always been my assumption that girls who spend their hard-earned money for a lake cruise or a Hollywood trip, or a jaunt to the ski-bowls, did it in a kind of romantic hopefulness. But there are no detached young men at Timberline just now. In fact the paucity of Greek gods is so extreme that Naureen has had to wind up her first big worldly vacation with an old goat like me as her only social companion. I can’t dance, sing, swim, ski, skate, carry on a conversation or tolerate moonlight. I’m not even rich. I don’t see how Maureen can bear it.
Yet she seems happy as a lark, intrigued with everything that happens, profoundly serious about her skiing, and wonderfully glad she came.
The other instructor took us on for a while this afternoon, to give poor Olaf a little respite from his ordeal. This other one is named Martin Poff. He is Swiss, and he’s a noted racing skier. He and Olaf both speak perfect English and are very nice people.
Both Olaf and Martin are small men. They say short people make the best skiers. Olaf has already been in the Army, but was let out because he was over 28. He’s expecting his recall any day now. He’ll be in the ski troops when he re-enters.
A great many Oregon skiers have gone into the Ski Troops. Practically any good skier can get into the outfit, they tell me. If you’re of draft age and not bad on skis, the way to go about it is to have your local ski club write to the National Ski Patrol in New York City, recommending you. The Army has given the Ski Patrol the job of attesting to the ability of ski volunteers.
Tomorrow is my last day here. I’ve decided to practice all night tonight. It simply must not get about that the great Ernst couldn’t make one turn in a whole week. Tomorrow I’ll either make that turn or break up my skis, poles, legs and arms in a final rage of frustration. In case I do make it, I think I’ll join the ski troops.