The Pittsburgh Press (February 11, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
TIMBERLINE LODGE, Ore. – There is one trouble with learning to ski, as far as writing about it is concerned. That’s the fact that your mood changes so often.
When I came up here I thought I’d just clown through the whole thing, make only a halfhearted attempt at skiing, and try to be funny about it in the column.
But gee, when you get out there and are face to face with it, grappling for your balance, it isn’t funny at all. You get very serious about it, and all of a sudden.
After that you go through a whole cycle of determination, elation and disgust. After you’ve been doing fairly well for a couple of days, the beginner usually has a bad relapse. Everything goes wrong. You’re worse than the first day. Also, you hurt all over.
Right there’s the critical time. A great gloomy disinterest in skiing comes over you. You get cynical. Most people of my character quit right there.
That’s where I was this morning. It was my last day here. When I awakened I was in pain from head to foot. The bruised end of my spine had kept me awake half the night. I couldn’t get my shoes on for about five minutes. And it was storming outside.
“I’ve had enough,” I said. “I can’t learn to ski anyway, so why torture myself this last day? I’ll just lounge around.”
Olaf says it’s O.K.
And so I didn’t even put on my ski clothes. When my friends arrived from Portland at noon, they found me sitting before the fireplace. Sitting on one side too, I might add.
“How do you like skiing?” they shouted.
“I think it is asinine,” I said. “You go ahead and ski, and I’ll be packed and ready when you come in.”
“Oh no,” they said, “you’re going up the ski lift with us and ski down the Magic Mile.”
“Me ski down the Magic Mile?” I said. “Don’t be insane. It would be suicide. I couldn’t ski down the Magic Mile if I practiced for two years.”
But they went out and asked Olaf, and he said it would be all right. Then they had me. I couldn’t refuse without being a plain coward.
When I saw there was no way out, I hunted up my novice skiing companion, Maureen Jackman, and asked her to go along. I needed company in my misery. She was a little startled too, but said if I was going to be a fool she guessed she would too.
The four of us rode the lift to the top. It was storming again. We clop-clopped up the little slope back of the shelter house, and stood for a minute before starting the awful descent. The wind blew and the hard snow bit into our faces.
One of our friends took off. Then the other. Then my new girl friend. That left me all alone. Again came that terrible panicky feeling. But I gave a shove. My last bridge was burned.
I guess that first straight run must have been 50 yards, and at the bottom you either had to turn or smack into a hillside. So do you know what I did? I turned! And me a guy who can’t make turns.
I found my friends waiting for me over the brow of the next slope. I skied down to them. “You look fine,” they said. “You’re doing dandy.” I began to feel a sort of pride.
We worked down the mountain slowly. A racing skier can make the Magic Mile in a minute and a half. But we took an hour, and probably covered three miles.
Finally hits his stride
We stopped frequently, for our legs got tired holding on the brakes. Then our two more experienced friends would show us what they knew about certain turns, and we’d practice a little on some gentle slope. The afternoon fled by, and living became fun again.
The snow was so thick we could see only a hundred feet ahead. We were covered with snow, The day was miserable, but we were not cold, rather we were warm and elated. Even my muscles forgot to hurt.
Suddenly we looked at our watches, and saw it was almost time to leave for Portland. The veteran of our party said it was still half a mile to the bottom.
“Let’s be off,” he said.
And with that he dug in his ski-poles, gave himself a push, and shot straight down the mountain. We had to follow to keep him in sight.
It was that last half mile which finally made a rabid, raving ski enthusiast cut of me. For I personally skied that last half mile without stopping and without falling down; skied all the turns, and made them with passable grace; hurdled small ice ridges without losing my balance; finally felt the magnificent rush and rhythm of the thing.
When we wound up with a snow-swirling flourish at the bottom, I felt an elation I hadn’t known in years. I had done something that was impossible for me to do, and done it fairly well.
The wind and the speed and the rhythm of the skis had finally got into my blood. For the first time in years I loved being out in the snow. I wanted to ski forever.
We dashed up to your rooms to change clothes. My friends finished dressing and waited for me in the lounge. I didn’t appear and finally they came to my room.
They found me on the floor, fainted dead away. In my hand was clutched a folder which I’d picked up while dressing. It described the various ski runs at Timberline. And under the heading “Magic Mile” was the following message:
“A 20 per cent grade. For intermediate and expert skiers only!”