My First Ski Trip 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The Harz Mountains were located not far to the south of Schöningen, where I lived in the Army in Germany. They were not tall mountains like in southern Germany, but they had some ski resorts.

Our group from the maintenance shop was at dinner in Braunschweig. We would occasionally gather for a meal at a large Chinese restaurant in the middle of town.

“I have to leave early tonight,” Burger said. “Milstid and I are going skiing in the morning.”

“Skiing,” I said. “Where do you find enough snow to ski around here this time of the year.”

“They have one hill open this weekend at the Harz mountains,” Burger said. “It’s artificial snow, but it’s good to practice on before we get some real snow next month.”

“You ought to come along, Larsen,” Milstid said. 

“I have never been on a pair of skis,” I said. “Besides, I don’t have any equipment.”

“There’s a ski shop right across the street,” Burger said. “They could get you outfitted in no time.”

I took another drink from my liter mug of beer and gave it some thought. Money was no object to us. Wobeck, our outstation, had been on TDY pay for the entire year, and we lived like kings. I carried five hundred dollars in my pocket all the time.

“Come on, let’s run over there right now and make sure they can get you bindings installed tonight,” Milstid said.

I downed the remainder of my liter of beer and stood up, signaling I was ready. I had no idea what this ski adventure would involve.

A small group of us crossed the busy street and entered the shop. The sales lady spoke a little English, and Milstid and I spoke a little German. Beurger’s German was pretty good.

“This guy is going skiing in the morning if you can get him outfitted this evening,” Burger said in German.

“What do you need?” the sales lady asked.

“Everything,” Burger said. “Skis, bindings, poles, boots, ski pants, jacket, gloves, and hat.

“That is a lot of stuff. How are you going to pay for it?” she asked.

“Deutsche Marks,” Burger said. He turned to me and asked. “Do you have enough marks on you?”

“How much are we going to spend?” I asked. 

The sales lady answered without needing a translation. “This stuff will cost between one thousand and fifteen hundred marks.”

“I think I have two thousand marks in my pocket,” I said. “I was hoping to have some left for tomorrow.”

“He is just beginning,” Burger said. “He wants a good set of skis but doesn’t need the best skis on the rack. Are you going to be able to mount the bindings tonight? If not, there is no reason for us to buy anything.”

“Let me check with the guys in the back,” the lady said as she scurried off to the shop in the back.

“She was probably pricing things thinking she could sell you the best skis,” Burger said. “We will be under a thousand marks if we go down a notch on the skis.”

The lady came back, looking a little rushed.  

“Yes, they can do the bindings, but let’s pick out the skis, boots, and bindings first, so they can get started,” she said.

With Burger’s help, they picked out things and fitted my ski boots quickly. The guy from the back shop came out and ensured everything was ready.

“It won’t take long,” he said.

While the bindings were being screwed on the skis, we picked out all the other stuff. I thought I was set with pants, a jacket, gloves, and a hat. 

“You need heavy socks for those boots, or your feet will freeze,” the lady said.

“And you better buy a pair of good long johns,” Milstid said. “Otherwise, you will wear those Army ones, and they itch when you get sweaty.”

The bill was just short of twelve hundred marks when everything was totaled up. At four marks to the dollar, just under three hundred dollars. Almost pocket change to me in those days.

We loaded everything in the car, stopped at the bar several doors down the street, visited with the Norwegian twins, and had another beer. 

“Now we need to get home and adjust those bindings,” Milstid said. “And then we need to get some sleep. Burger is serious about his skiing, and he plans to leave before seven.”

We got back to Schöningen, and Milstid laid the skis out in the middle of his apartment, put the boots in the bindings, and started adjusting. Then he had me put the boots on and stand up on the skis.

So, here I am, standing, clamped into a pair of skis in a small apartment.

“Now fall over,” Milstid instructed.

“Fall over. What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

“Just fall, forward would be best,” Milstid said. “I need to see if these bindings are adjusted right.”

“If they aren’t, I will probably break my leg,” I said.

“No, not here, but on the ski slope, maybe,” Milstid said.

I fell forward, catching myself with my hands before my nose hit the ends of the skis. The bindings popped at the right time.

“Good, we are ready to go,” Milstid said. “We will be by your place at seven.”

When we arrived at the ski area, there was no snow in the parking lot.

“It is not looking so good for snow,” I said.

“They have been making snow on one slope,” Burger said, pointing up the hill to where a group of people was waiting for the rope tow.

We loaded up, and I threw my skis over my shoulder like I knew what I was doing, and we headed out.

“I guess we want you to start with the snow plow,” Milstid said. “If you get that down, we will give you some other moves.”

We got to the slope. It didn’t look like snow to me. It looked like ice. They had a couple of a row of irrigation sprinklers on each side of this short slope with a big bend in the middle, and the entire area was covered in ice. It was a little crunchy under your feet, but it was ice.

We put our skis on. I slipped a little but didn’t fall. 

“Okay, this is how you snow plow,” Milstid says as he positions his skis with the points touching. “You do this to turn right and this to turn left.”

“Now we are going up to the top of the slope on this rope tow,” Burger said. “The only thing you need to remember, once you grab that rope, don’t let go. It doesn’t matter what happens. Just don’t let go!”

The line was moving pretty well now, and I could walk on my skis with the help of my poles. I watched the people ahead of me. They would grab the rope, flex their knees and take off up the hill. Looked like a piece of cake.

Pretty soon, it was my turn to grab the rope. I grabbed it with both hands, and my ski poles dangled from my wrists. The rope immediately pulled me off my feet. 

“Don’t let go. It doesn’t matter what happens,” Burger’s last words rang in my ears. “Just don’t let go!”

I hung on. I struggled to get a better grip, almost stabbing myself with a ski pole. My skis bounded along as I tried to get my feet under me. I finally got my left arm over the rope. I could hear the muffled laughter coming from the group behind me. With my arm over the rope, I made one pull to right myself. I planted my left ski under me, stood up, and placed the right ski beside the left. It looked like I knew just what I was doing. 

A roar came up behind me as everyone was amazed that I had regained my feet halfway up the tow. Everyone was clapping and laughing at the same time.

When I reached the top of the tow, I pushed myself off with my ski poles, brushed myself off, and waited for Milstid and Burger.

They both arrived with broad smiles. Milstid repeated his demonstration of the snow plow, and then off they went down the slope like old pros. 

I inched myself over to the edge of the slope. I could see some people struggling on the hill, but most people were handling the ice just fine. 

This slope was steep at the start and leveled out some as it made a wide sweeping turn to the left. I took a deep breath and pushed off with my poles. I covered the steep area much faster than expected. I positioned my skis in the snow plow, easily turned to the right, and quickly came to the ice’s edge. Milstid hadn’t said anything about stopping. I bounced over the edge of the ice and came to a stop on the grass.

I got turned around just in time to see Milstid and Burger zoom past on their second trip down the hill. I walked back onto the ice. I made another loop, skiing out onto the slope and making a right turn back to the edge. I tried harder to stop this time and promptly fell on my butt. But I did come to a stop.

It soon became apparent that I could turn to the right just fine, but I had trouble turning to the left. I waited for an opening in the traffic and skied across the slope to the left side, making some progress at getting down the hill. One more time, crossing the slope to the right side. From here, the hill was much gentler, and I could go in a straight line all the way to the bottom.

I waited for Burger and Milstid.

“Hey, Guys,” I said. “I need a little more instruction.”

They spent a few minutes and made sure I had both turns down and could stop. Then I followed them to the rope tow.

“I think I have this thing figured out,” I said. “It won’t take me by surprise again.”

I grabbed the rope and sailed to the top without incident. The person ahead of me on the rope tow was a kid about eight years old. We came off the tow and slid toward the edge of the slope. I stopped beside him. He looked at me and smiled, probably recognizing me from my earlier performance on the rope. 

The kid pushed off and went down the slope almost as well as Burger and Milstid. I took a breath and followed. I was going very fast and made it all the way to the sweeping left turn. I was still going straight and ended up in a pile in the grass on the right side of the slope. 

“Last time I will follow a kid,” I thought to myself.

I improved on each trip down the hill. By the end of the day, I was bruised and tired, but I could almost make the left turn in the slope and was a master at the rope tow. Things got better when we got to some real snow, but I don’t think I was ever as good as that eight-year-old kid.

Photo by Paul H on Pexels.

A Shot in the Dark, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The phone jarred me awake, it took a moment to orientate myself. I glanced at the clock, 3:00 AM. I sat up on the edge of the bed and shiver a bit as the chill of the bedroom air hits me.  I picked up the phone.

It was Jack, “Good morning, he said, I have a call, a downed cow with a uterine prolapse. I would like you to come along so I can show you how we do things. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

I sprang up, pulled on my pants with a quickening heart rate. This was exciting stuff for a new graduate. This was my very first emergency call, and I could hardly contain my excitement.

I had finished vet school 3 months ahead of most of my class due to a new schedule at Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine. They had divided the class into 4 groups, each group took their quarter break at different times in the school year. My group had Spring Quarter off. 

Sandy and I had 3 kids, and at this time, we were close to being broke. I got a temporary license and went to work. This was Wednesday night, actually Thursday morning, of my first week in a professional position.

I was a little surprised at my excitement. I was no kid, I was 30 years old. I had spent 4 years in the Army Security Agency. Mostly at top-secret border sites in South Korea and Germany. I had been through some exciting and tense times. I had regularly briefed generals who visited the locations. I had been in the middle of the scramble for intelligence during the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia. And here I am,  excited about going out at 3:00 in the morning to look at a sick cow.

Jack was a big man. I considered him an old man. He had been in practice for over 30 years, graduating from Washington State in 1943. He must have been all of 57 years old. 

Jack lived only a few blocks away, but I was dressed and waiting when he pulled up in the truck. The cow was at Fred’s place, only about a mile out of town.  

It is common for a dairy cow to get milk fever around calving time. It results from low blood calcium levels due to a delay in mobilizing calcium from the bones to meet the demand of milk production. Most of the time, it is rapidly progressive, and the cow will be down and unable to rise. If not treated promptly, it will result in death. The uterus can prolapse with or without milk fever.

We pulled into the barnyard. Cows were lined up for the morning milking, and the milker was busy in the parlor. We walked through the loafing shed and found the cow flat out in the straw and manure.  Her uterus was completely everted on the straw. The cow was comatose, suffering from advanced milk fever and probably compounded from shock associated with the uterine prolapse.

I started to collect some vitals on the cow, laying my stethoscope on her chest.

“Looks like we’re going to need some help with this one.” Jack says. He has already seen all he needs to see for his diagnosis. I tuck my stethoscope back inside my coveralls as Jack starts toward the milking parlor.

“We need some help with this cow.” Jack says to Charlie, the milker. “We will need the tractor with the frontend loader.”

“I can’t help, Fred is particular about milking time.” Charlie replied. “You need to get the hired man up to help. He lives in that small house across the barnyard.”

I follow Jack across the barnyard to the hired man’s house. I feel a little like I did in school, following some doctor around waiting to learn something but nothing really to do with yourself otherwise.

Jack knocks hard on the door of the little house.

“Who’s there?” The hired man calls out from inside the house. A light comes on.

“This is Doc,” Jack replies in a loud voice, leaning into the door to make sure he is heard. “We’re here to take care of a cow down with a prolapsed uterus.  We need you to get up and give us a hand.”

There is a short pause.

“I don’t get up at 3:00 in the morning for no damn cow,” the hired man replies. The light goes out.

Jack’s face reddens and he leans into the closed door, almost pressing his forehead into the door. 

“I don’t get up at 3:00 in the morning either if I don’t get any help!” Jack booms at the door.

There is no reply from inside the small house. Jack turns and steps past me, almost brushing me aside. He walks briskly to the truck. I follow, not sure what is next. Jack pulls open the door, reaches under the seat and pulls out a pistol, checks the clip, and chambers a shell. He heads back across the barnyard.

Jack finally calms himself enough to talk. 

“No reason for the cow to suffer because of that lazy bastard.”  

Jack places the gun against the back of her head and pulls the trigger. The cow stiffens and is gone.

”At least she won’t suffer any longer.” Jack says as he heads back to the truck. 

We drive home without talking. Jack drops me in front of the house.

“See you in the morning.” He says as he pulls away.  

Photo by Corinna Widmer from Pexels

The Blue Heron

D. E. Larsen, DVM

It was the third week of the fly-tying class I took through Linn Benton Community College. The course was conducted in the evening at Sweet Home High School.

“Tonight, we are going to tie a popular nymph, the tied-down caddis,” Red said as he laid out his materials. “Most of the skills you need for this fly have already been covered in the first two classes. We are going to learn one more skill tonight. That will be dubbing fur. Actually, we dub a lot of different materials in this day and age. But tonight, we will be using rabbit fur that is dyed yellow. It’s a simple technique useful for the bodies of many flies you will tie.”

Red was almost famous among the Sweet Home fishermen. He fished with flies exclusively, and this class not only covered the tying of those flies, but it also covered a lot of fishing techniques and local secrets.

We quickly reached the point where we waited for Red to demonstrate his fur dubbing.

“Before we wrap the body, we need to tie in the back feather,” Red said. “This material I will give you tonight is precious to me. I came across a dead blue heron on the river some years ago. I gathered his flight feathers. That is illegal, but like many things, only if you get caught. These feathers have proved perfect for the tied-down back of this nymph. The feather’s barbules collect small air bubbles, making this nymph more life-like. The fish just can’t resist it.”

Red carefully dispensed five or six barbs from his feather supply to everyone in the class. The law protecting birds extends to dead birds. This is to prevent people from shooting a bird for its feathers, claiming they found it dead. So, if you find a dead bird, you should just leave it in place.

“A lot of guys get a little fancy with their dubbing, and they make a long thread loop that they use to hold the material a little firmer,” Red said. “I consider that unnecessary. I just apply wax to the thread and roll the fur onto it between my two fingers. Then you wrap the body. Many bodies you wrap will be tapered, but we want an even body over the entire length of this fly.

We tied in the blue heron feather’s barbs at the fly’s tail end. After we dubbed a body of yellow fur and wrapped the body, we tied the thread in at the head, then bending the backing feather over the top of the dubbed body, we tied them down and wrapped the head.

The fly was finished with glue applied to the head. A perfect tied-down caddis. A common insect in the local streams and a trendy food item with the local fish.

I started fly fishing when I was eleven years old, at the suggestion of my newly acquired brother-in-law. I purchased a fly rod, reel, and a double tapered fly line, size H-G-H. That sizing system went by the wayside years ago.

Following this class, I tied flies for many years. I tied fly rods for the kids from fiberglass blanks, and we fished local waters and the high lakes for years. 

***

A year or two following that class, June called the clinic. I heard Ruth on the phone.

“Doctor Larsen doesn’t do birds except for farm birds like chickens, turkeys, geese, or ducks,” Ruth said.

After listening again, Ruth sat the receiver down and stepped back to talk with me.

“It’s June on the phone,” Ruth said. “They caught a blue heron at their pond. It has a broken leg and is in pretty bad shape. I tried sending them elsewhere, but she would like you to look at the bird for them.”

I rubbed my forehead with my left hand. I didn’t want it known that I would look at birds and I was not authorized to treat wildlife. But June and Bob were good clients, and this could be considered a farm bird, with a little stretch of one’s imagination.

“Okay, tell her I will look at the bird as a special favor,” I said. “But make no promises regarding treatment.”

“She sounds like this bird is in bad shape,” Ruth said. “I can’t imagine one of these birds just letting someone pick them up.”

It wasn’t long, and June was in the reception area with a frail blue heron in her arms. 

When I got to the exam room, the bird was lying on the exam table, his right eye following my every movement.

“We have seen him several times in the last week,” June said. “But today, he was in the small pond by the house, and Bob just went out and picked him up. He is skin and bones, and that leg looks beyond repair to me, but I will leave that decision to you, Doc.”

June’s assessment was pretty accurate. This bird was, indeed, skin and bones. I am not sure that I had seen a bird this emaciated before. And his right leg was not only fractured, but it was hanging by a strip of tissue on the medial side of the leg. It looked like it had been shot, and judging from the curvature of the remaining bone, I would say it had been shot with a thirty-caliber rifle. The bone was black on both sides of the fracture, and if there was any circulation in the distal leg, it was marginal at best. There would be no repairing this leg.

“This leg is toast, and this bird is starved to death,” I said. “I think it needs to be put to sleep.”

“That was our thought,” June said. “We didn’t want to do it and then get into trouble.”

“I’m sort of in the same boat,” I said. “I have no special protection from prosecution for a wildlife violation. I guess I better make a telephone call.”

I called the Oregon State Police office in Albany, and with luck, I was able to speak with the game officer.

“This is Doctor Larsen in Sweet Home,” I said. “I’m a veterinarian, and I have a client who brought in a blue heron this afternoon. This bird is emaciated and has had one leg nearly shot off. It is hanging by a thin strap of tissue. From the look of things that happened several weeks ago, it looks like a wound from a thirty-caliber bullet.”

“That sounds pretty bad for the bird,” the officer said. “We always seem to have a few idiots around that think it’s fun to shoot something like that.”

“This leg is not repairable, and this bird is not going to live long in its present condition,” I said. “I think I should put it to sleep.”

“If you are asking permission, I can’t give you that, but I will assure you that I won’t ticket you for doing it,” the officer said.

“Fair enough,” I said. “I would feel better if you were here so I could shake your hand on that, but I guess I trust your word.

“You have my word,” the officer said. “How do you dispose of the body?”

“All the animals that die here are either returned to the owner, or they go to the county for cremation,” I said.

“That’s good; send the bird for cremation, don’t return it to the client,” the officer said.

“Thanks for your time. That is what will be done,” I said.

“The game officer agreed that euthanasia was the best option for this bird,” I said. “I will put it to sleep and send it for cremation.”

I returned to the exam room and told June what would happen.

“Do we owe you anything?” June asked.

“No, I can’t charge you for something that I am not authorized to do in the first place,” I said. “Thanks for bringing in the poor guy. His end of life will be more pleasant than starving in a pond somewhere.”

June left, and Ruth stayed with the bird as I retrieved a dose of euthanasia solution. Finding his heart was no problem, with no muscle on his breast. I steadied the heart with my left hand and inserted the needle with my right. The bird was gone before the injection was complete.

“I will grab a bag for him,” Ruth said. “I think we already have the county coming in the morning. The freezer is almost full.”

I stood at the table, remembering Red’s comments about his blue heron feathers. “This guy will be cremated tomorrow,” I thought to myself. “Who would know.”

Photo by Diego Madrigal on Pexels.

Anatomy of a feather: https://askabiologist.asu.edu/explore/feather-biology