They don't tell you about this part when you walk into your recruiter's office and tell the Marine sitting behind the desk that you want to be a Marine Officer. I spent a good portion of my time this weekend sitting on an Administrative Separation (AdSep ["ad sep"]) board. An AdSep board is a panel of officers that recommends to the Commanding General whether a Marine be separated from the Marine Corps for administrative reasons. Also, if the board recommends separation, they recommend a characterization of service--whether the Marine should receive an honorable, general, or other than honorable discharge.
An administrative separation does not always imply wrong-doing on the part of the Marine--for example, a Marine that is injured is administratively separated. However, many times Marines don't uphold the standards they are expected to uphold. These Marines might have minor punishment administered--loss of rank, loss of pay, loss of liberty privileges, etc. There might be no punishment--an overweight Marine will certainly not enjoy the PT and the weigh-ins and the inability to be promoted, but that Marine is never formally punished.
Under certain circumstances, Marines are also be separated from the Marine Corps. If an overweight Marine refuses to lose weight for a long period of time, they will be AdSepped. Until recently, Marines that were homosexual were AdSepped. And Marines that are caught using drugs on a urinalysis are AdSepped.
I have sat on two AdSep boards so far. They followed some amount of legal proceedings--there is a prosecutor called the recorder, the Marine typically has a Navy lawyer representing them, and three officers outside the Marine's chain of command serve as the judge and jury. The first one I did several months ago was not too difficult. The Marine admitted to using marijuana, and the focus of the board was to determine his characterization of service. However, in the board I sat on this past weekend, the Marine insisted that the marijuana in his system was innocently ingested. He brought in a friend with a medical marijuana card that claims the drug was his, his fiance came to explain that she would never allow drugs in their home, and another Marine testified as a character witness.
I have many thoughts about the process and this board that I would love to explain in detail, but I don't have time. The one thing I do want to discuss: at one point during the board, while listening to the Marines' fiance testify, I realized that I was the bad guy. A situation that had happened inside their home had been brought up on a public website, and she was explaining to the board that it was slander. As she talked, discussion broke out between the other board members, the recorder, and the Navy lawyer over the general topic. Since no one else was listening to her, and I was sitting closest to her, she turned to me, looked me in the eye, and continued with her explanation. She looked almost desperate, and I realized: in her eyes I was the judgmental, unfeeling authority that wouldn't care about what had actually happened, wouldn't care about the fact that they had two small children to support, and would have no mercy. Of course, that wasn't true, but sitting there in my uniform and refusing to show any empathy, that is more than likely how I appeared to her.
It was a difficult case to hear. The board doesn't actually make the final decision to separate the Marine--we just make a recommendation to the Commanding General, and those recommendations are not infrequently overturned. However, when it came down to deliberations, there was one board member who decided that the Marine was guilty fairly quickly, one board member who was very reluctant to do so, and then there was me. I was the swing vote. And I made the recommendation, based on the evidence and testimony that was presented and in accordance with the appropriate orders, that the Marine should be separated from the Marine Corps.
It wasn't an easy decision to make. Was the Marine telling the truth, or was he lying? Was it a single mistake he'd made, or had he finally been caught at something he'd been doing for a long time? Did a single mistake after 10 years of service to the Marine Corps or the possibility that he was telling the truth mean that we should give him an extra few months in the Marine Corps (his contract was finished in several months regardless) to figure out what he would do afterwards? Did his misconduct warrant an other than honorable discharge or only a general discharge? What would happen to his family if he was separated from the Marine Corps with little time to prepare? The decisions I made could potentially have a huge impact on his life.
They don't tell you about this when you're an officer candidate. We expect to be responsible for lives in a war zone. They don't tell you that you'll end up sitting on a board, looking a woman in the eyes and realizing that you're about to destroy her livelihood.
One of the Marine Corps' leadership principles is "Seek responsibility and take responsibility for your actions." I will take responsibility for my decision--I believe it was the right decision. However, I hope that the General who will read our recommendation will decide that there is room for mercy, too.
09 January 2012
02 January 2012
Stubbe Springs
Adventures are rarely fun while you are having them. Actually, you don't typically think of an adventure as an "adventure" while you're having one. You're more likely to think of it as--"it's pouring rain and my tent is flooded," or "the road is mostly washed out and I don't know if I will be able to get my car down the mountain and back onto pavement," or "uhh...where did the trail go?" It's not until later that you realize it was a real adventure.
Adventures of the tamer kind--"yay, we just followed the trail to the top of the mountain," or "that was a nice 70-mile bike ride" pale in comparison to the real adventures, the ones that produce some amount of adrenaline and make you question why you wanted to hike/camp/bike/snowboard/be anywhere but warm and dry at home that day. The real adventures are much more fun the next day, or the next week, or the next month, when you're safely at home, warm and dry, and recounting the story to friends. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I realized that I was in the middle of an adventure--a real one.
New Year's Eve was a beautiful day for a hike in Joshua Tree, and I was far from the only person who thought so. The park was swarming with people, and I saw four sets of hikers on a trail where I have hiked previously (twice) and never seen anyone. My first mistake was starting a little too late, and over-estimating the amount of daylight I had left. My second mistake was forgetting my flashlight. (Also, I neglected to see how much moonlight I would have once the sun went down.) My back was a little sore as I started hiking, so I didn't hike quite as fast as I typically hike, which even further decreased the amount of daylight I had. I hit the overlook before sunset, took a short break, and then as I headed back up the trail realized that the shadows were starting to get long.
It wasn't an issue until I realized that the wash I was following had fewer footprints in it than it had previously. Since I was a little pressed for time, I decided not to turn around and try to find where the trail had left the wash, but instead keep pushing and hope I could find another place where the trail passed by the wash. Needless to say, hope is not a course of action, and I soon realized it was unlikely that I would find the trail again by following the wash. I thought I saw what might be the trail, checked it out--nope. By this time, back-tracking would have taken too much time. And so the adventure began--no trail, and daylight quickly fading.
I first took a few seconds to put the detachable legs back on my hiking pants. If I was going to be hiking cross-country in search of the trail, I didn't want my legs to get needlessly scratched up in the process. The trail was supposed to head northwest to a pass in a major ridge, and then back northeast into the valley I'd come in on and then link up with the main trail. If I headed north, I would be heading towards higher ground, where I would be more likely to be able to see the trail again. As very last resort there was a high point on the ridge to the northeast, where I would be able to see everything, including what I thought of as "home valley" where the loop met up with the main trail. The cross-country travel would be slow, and it was questionable whether I would be able to find the trail from that hill once the sun set, but sooner or later I would be able to find my way out.
I hiked up a small ridge off to my right, hoping to see the trail, but all I saw was another ridge. I hiked up that one, too. At this point, I still hadn't found the trail, so I figured the trail must have cut south or west from the wash (I was headed northeast), and that it was unlikely I would find it again in that valley. At this point, that wasn't a big deal, since I'd abandoned the idea of finding the trail in that valley anyway. Fortunately, from this second small ridge I could see the main ridge I needed to cross before I reached "home valley".
I looked at my map again and realized the trail likely cut through a pass off to the west. I decided that heading down to that pass and try to find the trail was probably not going to be as fruitful as heading up to a saddle in the ridge, where I could see everything. Also, if I ended up fighting northwest and then back northeast without a trail, it would probably be a lot slower than simply heading north without a trail. I identified the saddle on my map and started heading towards it as fast as I could--I needed to have some light left once I got up there in order to find the trail again. The adrenaline was pumping full volume at this point. If it got dark before I found the trail again, I would have to decide between sitting in one spot and waiting for daylight or risk actually getting lost while stumbling around in the dark. I wasn't lost at this point--I knew exactly where I was and exactly where I needed to be. If I stumbled around in the dark and couldn't recognize where I was once it got light again--then I would have real problems.
Fortunately, less than 60 seconds after I started hiking towards the ridge, I stumbled across the trail again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief--there would be no cross-country navigation. No trying to find the trail in the dark, or deciding between waiting it out or risking getting lost. However, I didn't know what lay ahead of me on the trail, or how easy it would be to lose the trail again (a problem compounded by fading light and no flashlight). I started walking as quickly as I possibly could, following the trail through the wash I had identified earlier. I was almost grateful for the adrenaline, because it meant that I couldn't feel any nagging pain in my back, and it didn't hurt to hike as quickly as I could.
As I hiked, I paid close attention to the trail in front of me, double-checking places where I thought it might branch. The other danger I identified was tripping or twisting/spraining my ankle. I've hiked/walked on twisted ankles before, so I knew I could do it, but it would slow me down significantly and cost me precious daylight. I didn't have a back-up plan should I happen to lose the trail again once it got dark, except that I figured it would involve a lot of sitting and thinking and straining my eyes to try to identify peaks. I could feel the temperature drop, and my hands started to get stiff. I tried to ignore it--thinking about the cold wouldn't make it go away, and if I stayed moving I would probably be fine. Chilly, but fine.
The trail emptied into a large well-defined wash, which I was grateful for. It would be difficult to lose the wash, and there were copious footprints to tell me I was still on the trail. Also, there was a sign at the location I'd entered the wash, so if I paid attention there would more than likely be a sign telling me where to exit the wash as well. Unfortunately, even with my elevated pace the wash stretched on for what seemed like forever (but was probably only half an hour), and the stars started to come out as the last of the daylight faded. Now I paid close attention to the footprints in the wash, which indicated that the trail had indeed not left the wash yet. Finally, I saw the sign with a single arrow pointing left. The map had indicated that once I left the wash, it wasn't far until I joined up with the main trail again. And sure enough--after a couple minutes I saw the sign marking the junction of the loop and the main trail.
The adrenaline started to subside; I had hiked the main trail in, and it was easy to follow in daylight. I hoped it would be as easy to follow during the night. I relaxed slightly, but I was on my last slivers of daylight. I didn't realize it at that point, but the light from the moon and stars had already become a factor--a few minutes later I realized that I could see my shadow. YAY!!!!!! I had moonlight! It wasn't going to get any darker, and if I was careful, I wouldn't lose the trail on my way out.
I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief, then forced myself to relax. I looked up at the moon and stars--something I enjoy anyway--and saw that Orion was easily identifiable. I took a picture of my last sliver of daylight and the moon, and then a picture of the moon. My day hike had turned into a night hike, and although I was chilly, I wouldn't be spending the night, so I could deal with a little bit of cold until I got back to my care.
I don't know if you've seen the movie 127 Hours, in which the protagonist gets trapped in a canyon and cuts his own arm off in order to get out. I read the book several years ago so I didn't see the movie, but it was obvious in the book that the author had been almost seeking a life-or-death situation like the one he found himself in--going off on his own for days, not telling anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone (one thing I always do when I hike on my own), taking risks, etc. I've never thought of myself that way, but I realized on that hike that I might be more like him than I think.
I have a lot of training and skills, and they've never really been tested. I'll test myself physically all the time, but I've never put my skills to a real test--this was the closest I've come. As an outdoorsman/woman there's a certain pride that comes from knowing that yes, indeed, I have the abilities to work myself out of a sticky situation, and I proved it when X happened. I could have prepared better and reduced my chances of getting lost in the first place with a flashlight. Instead, I found myself testing my skills and my ability to assess situations and make decisions under pressure. Although I believe I made the right decisions, I got lucky when I found the trail again, because I really did think it was behind me, and I was fortunate that I had a half-moon to provide some light even though I hadn't verified the moon would be out that night before I left. When things go wrong, it's usually the result of multiple failures. I made several mistakes, but they weren't enough to put me in my worst case scenario of spending the night in Joshua Tree.
Anyway, I made it to my car safe and sound and actually did manage to enjoy the night portion of my hike. I have added flashlight and compass to the things I will always bring with me on a hike from now on, and will be more careful with rationing daylight. But you can bet I will not stop hiking. :-)
I apologize that I have not been writing as many blog entries as of late. The work I do now is actually slightly more sensitive than what I did in Afghanistan (crazy, right? but true), so I have shied away from writing about that. And although I do have some fun stories from the weekends I go to drill, I usually get back late and launch right into the work week, so I never have time to write about them until several days later. I will try to do better, as I do enjoy writing, and I know that you all enjoy reading.
Semper Fi! And please, if you take one thing away from this story, let it be this: if you are going to go hiking around outdoors, then please tell someone where you are going and how long you will be gone! It will give you a fighting chance when you make every mistake in the book and don't manage to stumble across the trail.
Adventures of the tamer kind--"yay, we just followed the trail to the top of the mountain," or "that was a nice 70-mile bike ride" pale in comparison to the real adventures, the ones that produce some amount of adrenaline and make you question why you wanted to hike/camp/bike/snowboard/be anywhere but warm and dry at home that day. The real adventures are much more fun the next day, or the next week, or the next month, when you're safely at home, warm and dry, and recounting the story to friends. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday when I realized that I was in the middle of an adventure--a real one.
New Year's Eve was a beautiful day for a hike in Joshua Tree, and I was far from the only person who thought so. The park was swarming with people, and I saw four sets of hikers on a trail where I have hiked previously (twice) and never seen anyone. My first mistake was starting a little too late, and over-estimating the amount of daylight I had left. My second mistake was forgetting my flashlight. (Also, I neglected to see how much moonlight I would have once the sun went down.) My back was a little sore as I started hiking, so I didn't hike quite as fast as I typically hike, which even further decreased the amount of daylight I had. I hit the overlook before sunset, took a short break, and then as I headed back up the trail realized that the shadows were starting to get long.
It wasn't an issue until I realized that the wash I was following had fewer footprints in it than it had previously. Since I was a little pressed for time, I decided not to turn around and try to find where the trail had left the wash, but instead keep pushing and hope I could find another place where the trail passed by the wash. Needless to say, hope is not a course of action, and I soon realized it was unlikely that I would find the trail again by following the wash. I thought I saw what might be the trail, checked it out--nope. By this time, back-tracking would have taken too much time. And so the adventure began--no trail, and daylight quickly fading.
I first took a few seconds to put the detachable legs back on my hiking pants. If I was going to be hiking cross-country in search of the trail, I didn't want my legs to get needlessly scratched up in the process. The trail was supposed to head northwest to a pass in a major ridge, and then back northeast into the valley I'd come in on and then link up with the main trail. If I headed north, I would be heading towards higher ground, where I would be more likely to be able to see the trail again. As very last resort there was a high point on the ridge to the northeast, where I would be able to see everything, including what I thought of as "home valley" where the loop met up with the main trail. The cross-country travel would be slow, and it was questionable whether I would be able to find the trail from that hill once the sun set, but sooner or later I would be able to find my way out.
I hiked up a small ridge off to my right, hoping to see the trail, but all I saw was another ridge. I hiked up that one, too. At this point, I still hadn't found the trail, so I figured the trail must have cut south or west from the wash (I was headed northeast), and that it was unlikely I would find it again in that valley. At this point, that wasn't a big deal, since I'd abandoned the idea of finding the trail in that valley anyway. Fortunately, from this second small ridge I could see the main ridge I needed to cross before I reached "home valley".
I looked at my map again and realized the trail likely cut through a pass off to the west. I decided that heading down to that pass and try to find the trail was probably not going to be as fruitful as heading up to a saddle in the ridge, where I could see everything. Also, if I ended up fighting northwest and then back northeast without a trail, it would probably be a lot slower than simply heading north without a trail. I identified the saddle on my map and started heading towards it as fast as I could--I needed to have some light left once I got up there in order to find the trail again. The adrenaline was pumping full volume at this point. If it got dark before I found the trail again, I would have to decide between sitting in one spot and waiting for daylight or risk actually getting lost while stumbling around in the dark. I wasn't lost at this point--I knew exactly where I was and exactly where I needed to be. If I stumbled around in the dark and couldn't recognize where I was once it got light again--then I would have real problems.
Fortunately, less than 60 seconds after I started hiking towards the ridge, I stumbled across the trail again. I breathed a huge sigh of relief--there would be no cross-country navigation. No trying to find the trail in the dark, or deciding between waiting it out or risking getting lost. However, I didn't know what lay ahead of me on the trail, or how easy it would be to lose the trail again (a problem compounded by fading light and no flashlight). I started walking as quickly as I possibly could, following the trail through the wash I had identified earlier. I was almost grateful for the adrenaline, because it meant that I couldn't feel any nagging pain in my back, and it didn't hurt to hike as quickly as I could.
As I hiked, I paid close attention to the trail in front of me, double-checking places where I thought it might branch. The other danger I identified was tripping or twisting/spraining my ankle. I've hiked/walked on twisted ankles before, so I knew I could do it, but it would slow me down significantly and cost me precious daylight. I didn't have a back-up plan should I happen to lose the trail again once it got dark, except that I figured it would involve a lot of sitting and thinking and straining my eyes to try to identify peaks. I could feel the temperature drop, and my hands started to get stiff. I tried to ignore it--thinking about the cold wouldn't make it go away, and if I stayed moving I would probably be fine. Chilly, but fine.
The trail emptied into a large well-defined wash, which I was grateful for. It would be difficult to lose the wash, and there were copious footprints to tell me I was still on the trail. Also, there was a sign at the location I'd entered the wash, so if I paid attention there would more than likely be a sign telling me where to exit the wash as well. Unfortunately, even with my elevated pace the wash stretched on for what seemed like forever (but was probably only half an hour), and the stars started to come out as the last of the daylight faded. Now I paid close attention to the footprints in the wash, which indicated that the trail had indeed not left the wash yet. Finally, I saw the sign with a single arrow pointing left. The map had indicated that once I left the wash, it wasn't far until I joined up with the main trail again. And sure enough--after a couple minutes I saw the sign marking the junction of the loop and the main trail.
The adrenaline started to subside; I had hiked the main trail in, and it was easy to follow in daylight. I hoped it would be as easy to follow during the night. I relaxed slightly, but I was on my last slivers of daylight. I didn't realize it at that point, but the light from the moon and stars had already become a factor--a few minutes later I realized that I could see my shadow. YAY!!!!!! I had moonlight! It wasn't going to get any darker, and if I was careful, I wouldn't lose the trail on my way out.
I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief, then forced myself to relax. I looked up at the moon and stars--something I enjoy anyway--and saw that Orion was easily identifiable. I took a picture of my last sliver of daylight and the moon, and then a picture of the moon. My day hike had turned into a night hike, and although I was chilly, I wouldn't be spending the night, so I could deal with a little bit of cold until I got back to my care.
I don't know if you've seen the movie 127 Hours, in which the protagonist gets trapped in a canyon and cuts his own arm off in order to get out. I read the book several years ago so I didn't see the movie, but it was obvious in the book that the author had been almost seeking a life-or-death situation like the one he found himself in--going off on his own for days, not telling anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone (one thing I always do when I hike on my own), taking risks, etc. I've never thought of myself that way, but I realized on that hike that I might be more like him than I think.
I have a lot of training and skills, and they've never really been tested. I'll test myself physically all the time, but I've never put my skills to a real test--this was the closest I've come. As an outdoorsman/woman there's a certain pride that comes from knowing that yes, indeed, I have the abilities to work myself out of a sticky situation, and I proved it when X happened. I could have prepared better and reduced my chances of getting lost in the first place with a flashlight. Instead, I found myself testing my skills and my ability to assess situations and make decisions under pressure. Although I believe I made the right decisions, I got lucky when I found the trail again, because I really did think it was behind me, and I was fortunate that I had a half-moon to provide some light even though I hadn't verified the moon would be out that night before I left. When things go wrong, it's usually the result of multiple failures. I made several mistakes, but they weren't enough to put me in my worst case scenario of spending the night in Joshua Tree.
Anyway, I made it to my car safe and sound and actually did manage to enjoy the night portion of my hike. I have added flashlight and compass to the things I will always bring with me on a hike from now on, and will be more careful with rationing daylight. But you can bet I will not stop hiking. :-)
I apologize that I have not been writing as many blog entries as of late. The work I do now is actually slightly more sensitive than what I did in Afghanistan (crazy, right? but true), so I have shied away from writing about that. And although I do have some fun stories from the weekends I go to drill, I usually get back late and launch right into the work week, so I never have time to write about them until several days later. I will try to do better, as I do enjoy writing, and I know that you all enjoy reading.
Semper Fi! And please, if you take one thing away from this story, let it be this: if you are going to go hiking around outdoors, then please tell someone where you are going and how long you will be gone! It will give you a fighting chance when you make every mistake in the book and don't manage to stumble across the trail.
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