In case you thought Commissioning Week was perfect

I waited nine years for my first military academy Commissioning Week, so believe me when I tell you I soaked in every moment. And judging by my Facebook feed, so did all of the USAFA 2025 parents.

But just in case you thought the week was perfect for everyone, let me share a little story, one that illustrates why our sons and daughters are taught to overcome adversity and FIO (figure it out).

I spent the weekend before Commissioning Week with my 2020 USNA graduate son in Bozeman, Montana, where he recently started his shore duty. Yes, I fully appreciate the irony of a “shore” duty taking place in landlocked Montana. Regardless, he showed me around the very cool town and we hiked Yellowstone. Perfection.

The simple plan included a Tuesday flight from Bozeman to Denver, where we would meet Cate at the AirBnB and get the weeklong celebration started.

Spoiler alert (imagine Morgan Freeman’s voice here): The plan turned out to be not so simple.

I hadn’t heard from our AirBnB host by Sunday, which was a little surprising because the listing explicitly indicated we’d received the door code at least 48 hours in advance. I reached out without a response, so I pinged support to jar things loose. No worries, support indicated, they probably just forgot.

Well, Sunday turned to Monday and I got on the phone with support – no worries, they said, you’ll definitely get the code tomorrow morning. OK, as long as Cate could get in before our arrival to unload the stuff she needed to haul back home.

Tuesday morning arrived early for me with my eyes popping open at 5 a.m., probably the combination of the time zone shift and excitement. I tried to fight it for 30 minutes, tossing and turning, but sleep was not to be, so I grabbed my phone and scrolled. The email jumped off the screen.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but our reservation has been cancelled.”

Now, I’ve been on AirBnB for almost five years and have booked about two dozen places. Despite reading reams of horror stories, I have never encountered a single issue. Until this one. Booked more than a year in advance, it had now been cancelled the morning of my arrival on the onset of one of the biggest week’s our family has had in many years.

Of course, the first reaction was shock and anxiety. We all know how fast places get snatched up for Commissioning Week. My mind raced, wondering how far out we’d have to be to find a suitable place to stay.

Then I switched from reaction to response. Work the problem.

The credit for the payment on the now-canceled house had been applied to my AirBnB account. And while I was confident there would be no suitable location given the timeframe, I leaned on one of the first lessons I learned in my journalism classes – never assume, always check.

Lo and behold, I found a few houses available and one looked like the perfect fit – one bedroom and one bathroom more than the previous house. And it was closer to USAFA. And, as a kicker, it was a few bucks cheaper. By 6 a.m., I had it booked and held my breath. My experience with AirBnB is that it could take a while to get a response and work out details with the host.

Well, this host must be an early riser because within minutes, she sent a non-automated message welcoming me and asking when I would arrive so she could have the place ready. We exchanged a few more messages, I reached out to Cate to give her the new information and we put the crisis behind us.

As is my habit, Noah & I arrived at the Bozeman airport way ahead of our flight and at an airport that small, that meant we never broke stride. We dropped off our bags, breezed through security and found our gate (there aren’t that many to begin with) and found a spot for breakfast. Another of my travel tics is checking Flight Aware to see where my plane was and ours was on track. I sighed and relaxed as the waitress dropped off our coffee.

Cue Morgan Freeman: Turns out, the coffee wouldn’t be strong enough.

As I stirred in the creamer, the alert came through – our flight had been cancelled.

Again, the shock washed over me and, this time, Noah, who hadn’t been awake for the AirBnB issue. We went from reaction to response and checked flights later in the day and found one. But by the time our breakfast arrived, United had already booked us on a flight Wednesday morning. The afternoon flight was booked solid.

“I’d drive,” the waitress offered without prompting. “When the cancel flights, it never goes well.”

I told Noah that even if the morning flight went off without a hitch, we wouldn’t make it for the Wednesday morning parade and if it were delayed or cancelled, we would miss the commissioning ceremony, during which he would administer the oath of office to his sister.

Noah said we couldn’t chance missing commissioning but he hesitated, not because of the drive, but because of the wear and tear on his 20-plus year-old Suburban. I shook my head. We’re renting, I assured him.

So I hoped online and booked a car through Hertz. Now anyone who has rented a car one-way for a distance knows that you can get socked with a pretty hefty “fee” for the service. There would be no such fee here, thankfully, and while I grabbed the rental, Noah headed back to his place to drop his truck.

We made a quick stop so he could get his hair within regs – something we planned to do after landing in Denver – and we were on our way.

Google Maps estimated the time to be a bit over 10 hours, but I saw that simply as the time to beat and off we went. After the first stop for gas, Noah offered to take over, but I declined. I was feeling it and we were making good time, no need to mess with success.

As we crossed into Wyoming, one of the state’s troopers decided to welcome us to the state, only to inform us we were going 84 in a 75. I smiled, told him our sad, sad story and he sent us on our way with his best wished (and no ticket). That behind us and an 80 mph speed limit upon us, I set the cruise well above 80 and we continued to barrel south, keeping a close eye on the rain to the West, which dogged us most of the remainder of the trip.

OK, that’s three, I thought – two cancellations and a trooper, that’s it.

Cue Morgan Freeman: That wasn’t it.

As we neared Denver, I asked Noah to check the map. We’d be dropping at Hertz and picking up the other rental at Thrifty (I would have canceled the Thrifty rental but it being so close to pickup, they would have charged me – trust me, I asked). So I wanted to know how far we’d have to go.

According to the map, Noah said, they are right next to each other.

Cue Morgan Freeman: They weren’t next to each other. Not even close.

In fact, there was about a mile separating the two and, conveniently, there was no sidewalk or walkway connecting them, only a path that was part dirt and part mud.

Noah offered a solution – we could take the Hertz shuttle back to the terminal then grab the Thrifty shuttle to get the next car.

It was at this point that a recessive gene from my father took hold – my father, the man who lied about his age to get into the Marines during the Korean War and went into bomb disposal, the man whose temper made Mount Vesuvius look like a balloon pop. I set my jar and through gritted teeth explain in one, short sentenced laced with a few choice words that we would, in no uncertain terms, waste another hour or more riding and waiting for shuttles.

The path was soft and muddy and I was packed for a week and a half (a few days with Noah prior, Commissioning Week and a couple of days of hiking in Western Colorado afterward) and there was no rolling these bags. I dragged them across that muddy mile. And I hadn’t given a thought to doing that a mile above sea level after a short night’s sleep and a long day’s drive. By the time we arrived at Thrifty, the bags were muddy, I was short of breath (to say the least) and damp with sweat.

But our car was waiting, and we made our way to the Springs without further incident.

Cue Morgan Freeman: Until breakfast the next morning.

Yes, fate’s final prank happened as I prepared breakfast. I put a few sausage patties on Pyrex pie dish (the house was a bit short on cookware) and after about 10 minutes or so, the oven emitted a loud bang. The dish had exploded in the oven, leaving it strewn with shards of glass. I chuckled and audibled on breakfast.

As fate would have it, the rest of the week went without a hitch and, in fact, better than I could have imagined.

But I knew I wasn’t alone in the unexpected hurdles. A group of us parents were on a group chat on Messenger and at the graduation ceremony, I noticed a few messages. One parent was sitting in a wheelchair area and asked for help with photos. Then a few minutes later, shared that she had gotten locked in a bathroom stall and had to crawl out. I laughed not at her but with her, we parents have all been through something. And even after the ceremony, there were stories of mispronounced names and one particular family whose overexuberance drowned out the announcer’s voice for several of their squad maters.

To me, the whole experience encapsulates the AFA experience – overcoming unexpected obstacles to enjoy things few get to experience. It’s not perfect and it’s certainly not easy. But it’s absolutely worth it.

Cue Morgan Freeman: That’s goddamn right.