The military loves its training exercises. In 2006, my squadron found its way to Alaska for a few weeks. We were there to participate in Northern Edge, a yearly event put on by the Air Force that brings together multiple branches of the military for joint training. Essentially, it’s a lot of moving parts, simulated combat scenarios, and standing around waiting for something to happen. But, hey, it’s Alaska, so at least the waiting was scenic.
Honestly, I didn’t have any complaints about this detachment. I was in charge of the ATs sent on the trip, and it was a pretty smooth operation—well, smooth by military standards. I arrived earlier than the rest of the squadron, which meant I got to deal with the setup logistics, like securing workspaces, coordinating with the base personnel, and figuring out how to make sense of Air Force layouts. And while we had our share of unique experiences, one incident even got us into one of the Navy safety center magazines. But we’ll get to that lovely little gem of a story soon enough.
One of the highlights of the detachment was an off-duty excursion a group of us took to see the Alaskan glaciers. Now, the name of the cruise has escaped me after all these years, but I know it departed from Whittier. I only remember that because getting there required us to go through the longest combined vehicle-railroad tunnel in North America. Nothing like a claustrophobic, echoing tunnel ride to make you appreciate the wide-open spaces of Alaska. But once we were on the water, it was worth it. The glaciers were absolutely breathtaking. Imagine towering blue walls of ice, so close you could almost reach out and touch them. We watched as massive chunks of ice broke off and crashed into the water, the sound reverberating through the air. And in one particularly memorable moment, a chunk of ice bounced off the hull of the ship—because nothing says “safe distance” like a glacier using your boat as target practice.
This entire detachment was full of unique and—what I’ll call—rare stories. We were working out of a hangar on Elmendorf AFB, but staying in dorms at the University of Alaska in Anchorage. Now, these weren’t your typical dorms. The setup was a bit odd, with only one entrance in and out, which made every morning feel like a game of “how fast can we all pile into the vans without leaving someone behind?” But that one entrance became the center of one of our more bizarre tales.
One particular morning, we all ended up being late for work. Yes, all of us—an entire detachment of military personnel, delayed. The reason, you ask? A moose. Not just any moose, but a very large, very hungry-looking moose that had decided to station itself right in front of the main door. Now, I’m not an expert in moose behavior, but from what I could tell, this moose had absolutely no interest in moving. We stood there, staring at it, trying to figure out what the military protocol was for “moose blocking exit.” Spoiler alert: there isn’t one. So, we just had to wait it out, hoping the moose would eventually get bored and wander off. If this hadn’t happened to all of us, I’m pretty sure the hangar would have been filled with laughter at our excuse. I can just imagine trying to explain that one to the brass: “Sorry we’re late, sir. We were held hostage by a moose.”
And now, the pièce de résistance of our detachment stories—the one that got us into the Naval Safety Center magazine. Part of my job in the Navy involved handling classified materials. This means dealing with safes that have two-combination locks, where we keep all the good stuff hidden away from prying eyes. Before we arrived at Elmendorf, the Air Force was nice enough to stage a safe for us to use. But, in a true display of military efficiency, they placed it far from where we were actually working. Maybe it made sense on some map in an office somewhere, but for those of us on the ground, it was just one more thing to lug around.
So, my division officer, my division chief, one of my subordinates, and I decided to move the safe ourselves. Now, most of the safes we dealt with had some weight to them, but nothing a few guys and a dolly couldn’t handle. But apparently, the Air Force doesn’t do anything halfway. Their safes? Built like tanks. After a lot of huffing, puffing, and maybe a little cursing, we managed to drag this monstrosity to a spot just shy of our truck. And that’s where things went south. As we attempted to load the safe into the truck, it slipped. There was a loud crash, some choice words, and my subordinate nearly lost a finger in the process. That’s how we ended up in the magazine—complete with gruesome photos and a cautionary tale about the dangers of moving heavy objects without proper equipment. Because nothing says “safety first” like almost crushing someone’s hand under a classified materials safe.
So, what did we learn from all this? Well, if you ever find yourself in Alaska, here are some key takeaways: glaciers are stunning, moose have no regard for military schedules, and when it comes to moving safes, you might want to leave it to the professionals. After all, nothing screams “mission accomplished” quite like almost losing a finger in the middle of nowhere. And hey, at least we got our 15 minutes of fame in a safety magazine—because who doesn’t love a good workplace injury story?
