Gathering of friends

It was great ski trip, but, better than that, a grand reunion for 13 old guys and five of our wives.

So, this was a homecoming, to the slopes, to the military, to the Forest Service, to good friends, and to remembrances of the exciting lives we’d once led.

We came from Post Falls and Hayden Lake, Colorado, Kansas, Montana and Washington state. Our ages ranged from 60 to 73, and in our group – reflective of our generation – were veterans of the Army, Navy, Marine Corps and Air Force.

Most of us had started working together a half-century or more ago as Forest Service smokejumpers. Later, we’d worn military uniforms or served in mufti in intelligence assignments. We’d soldiered on land, on the sea and in the air over Southeast Asia. A couple of us had even served together.

We represented a variety of occupations from which we’d retired: airline pilot, stockbroker, consulting forester, writer, optometrist, real estate developer, corporate pilot, CIA agent, government bureaucrat, forest ranger, fighter pilot. And our wives: nurse, teacher, homemaker, businesswoman, one of whom had lived in such places as Laos, Thailand and Africa.

All but one were in remarkably good health. The exception, a retired Air Force pilot, with Parkinson’s disease. Still, he skis. He falls often, but he skis.

Five of us had retired from the uniformed services and thus retain certain privileges, including the opportunity to stay on military bases and to sponsor friends and family members for on-base guest housing if space is available.

Hill Air Force Base in Ogden, Utah, is within an hour’s drive of eight splendid ski areas, and a fairly easy drive from our homes.

So, back in September, one of our gang reserved four townhouses on the base from Feb. 4 through 9, each with a kitchen, pots and pans and utensils.

First, we needed an off-base place to meet. A Mexican restaurant within a mile of Hill filled that bill. It offered a table that accommodated 18 and a couple of television sets to watch the Super Bowl on arrival day.

But the game was secondary to the gathering. With sidelong glances to the TVs as the Colts or Bears scored, we recounted long-dead fires, and wartime adventures, some of which might have been true, and generally flooded the place with laughter and hot air.

One of our group, a retired Marine colonel, doesn’t ski, but loves to cook. In fact, each summer he’s a chef for veteran smokejumpers crews who return as volunteers to Idaho and Montana to maintain Forest Service trails.

So, most of our evening meals were communal, based on raw materials from the Hill commissary.

To those of us who’d served in the military, it was a thrill to once again listen to the bugles that punctuate the day on a military reservation: Reveille at 7:25 a.m. alerts the troops for roll call; Retreat at 5:25 p.m., signals the end of the official day, followed by the national anthem.

Then Taps around 9:30 p.m. to signal bedtime, which we totally ignored.

During our suppers and at bull sessions, we relived the day’s runs and our early adventures, of course, but also kicked around our current military commitments in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Our opinions on the war are as disparate as those in the general population: Some support the Bush Administration’s policies; others are adamantly opposed.

There was, however, a telling moment one evening. As the bugle started playing retreat, one of the vets stepped onto the porch then stood at attention, hand over his heart.

As the notes faded away, he turned around to find the other men in identical poses behind him.