At the end of this month, the 28th annual
Disabled Veterans Winter Sports Clinic will take place in Snowmass,
Colo. The clinic helps veterans suffering from a variety of
challenges—from severe combat injuries to multiple sclerosis—rebuild
their lives.
That might sound like a
big claim for a one-week winter event, but hundreds of past participants
will tell you it's true.
Chris Devlin-Young,
who broke his back when a Coast Guard C-130 transport plane
crashed in Alaska on a rescue operation and later attended the first
clinic, went on to become a gold medalist in the 2002 Winter
Paralympics.
The Disabled Veterans
Winter Sports Clinic was started in 1987 by a small group of Veterans
Administration staff in Grand Junction, Colo. They worked on their own
time on a budget of $50,000—entirely from private contributions—with
some 90 veterans assisted by roughly 50 volunteers. This year there will
be some 570 volunteers assisting 400 veterans, including a 91-year-old
veteran of the World War II Army Air Force.
Since
2000, the Department of Veterans Affairs, a co-host of the clinic along
with Disabled American Veterans, has provided some direct support. But
85% of the clinic's budget, $800,000 this year, still comes from private
donations, not to mention the priceless volunteer support.
This
clinic is an example of our country at its best, of that American
genius for organizing on a volunteer basis to meet a societal need. It
is also a demonstration of the often extraordinary ability possessed by
people who are considered disabled—by traumatic brain injuries, spinal
cord injuries, orthopedic amputations, visual impairments and
neurological problems. Their performance frequently exceeds what many of
us supposedly "able-bodied" people can do.
The volunteers are a stellar group.
They include almost 200 certified ski instructors for the disabled—among
them some of the world's best—and several current and former members of
the U.S. Disabled Ski Team, as well as inventors of some of the
prosthetic devices that are crucial for this unique sport.
But
it's the participants themselves who are the most amazing. Chris
Devlin-Young says that he was mad at the world after becoming a
paraplegic. Attending the first clinic only reluctantly, he was urged to
try skiing—and became hooked after one run. "It gave me adrenaline and
control," he says. "It gave me my life back."
Another
member of that original group is Urban Miyares, who boasts the world
record for downhill blind skiing at 63 miles an hour and also skippered
the first sailboat to complete the Transpacific Yacht Race with an
all-disabled crew. He credits the clinic not only with his remarkable
athletic achievements but with helping him become a successful
entrepreneur.
Just 12 months after
losing both hands to an enemy rocket-propelled grenade in Iraq in 2004,
Marine Cpl. Eddie Wright was snowboarding at the clinic and stayed on
active duty as a martial arts instructor, the first double amputee to
serve on active duty, before retiring as a sergeant.
When
I first visited the clinic in 2004 as a Defense Department official, it
sounded like a winter vacation for some men and women who certainly
deserved one, but nothing more than that. I soon learned that the week
is more like boot camp, and for many it is even more demanding.
The
veterans are pushed to do things they never thought they'd be able to
do again, in some cases things they had never done at all. Imagine the
thrill of a blind Vietnam veteran making his way down the ski slopes for
the first time in his life, helped by the highly skilled instructor
behind him. Or a newly injured triple amputee participating in adaptive
sled hockey—a form of ice hockey.
Chris Lynch,
a veteran of the famed 82nd Airborne Division, suffered a severe
traumatic brain injury in a training accident 14 years ago. He has
attended the clinic regularly since 2003. His mother, Cheryl, says, "No
words can actually express how amazing this clinic really is." Cheryl
started a traumatic brain injury support group that meets during the
clinic. Veterans and their families discuss how they try to cope with
the life-changing challenges they encounter.
Early
during my first visit in 2004, one veteran approached me and with tears
in his sightless eyes said: "I owe my life to this program." A nearly
fatal automobile accident had left him, as he put it, "deaf, dumb, blind
and quadriplegic. I was almost ready to give up on life." As the weight
of that thought sank in, he continued: "This program gave me my life
back. Now I have everything except my eyesight."
You
can hear that story again and again from so many of the participants.
"This clinic changed my life. It gave me back my will to live."