My first instinct was no. Absolutely not. When Mangudai 2025 came across my desk last summer, I knew exactly what it was, I’d heard the stories back in 2017 from a unit member who’d survived it.

My first instinct was no. Absolutely not.

When Mangudai 2025 came across my desk last summer, I knew exactly what it was, I’d heard the stories back in 2017 from a unit member who’d survived it. He called it hard but rewarding, which in military speak usually means “borderline miserable but you’ll grow from it.” Still, my gut reaction was immediate: there’s no way I’m signing up for that.

I’m an Ammo Chief. Twenty-one years building expertise in munitions, logistics and leadership, not humping boats up mountains or navigating with a compass. That’s not the brand of military I joined. I picked the Air Force specifically because it wasn’t this version of service, that’s Army stuff. Marine stuff, Operator stuff. Not what anyone expects from a munitions squadron Senior Enlisted Leader.

But then I did something stupid. During a feedback session with a SNCO, I heard myself say what I always during feedbacks: “If an opportunity makes you uncomfortable, those are exactly the opportunities you should take.” The words hung there for a second. Mangudai made me deeply uncomfortable.

So I signed up anyway.

The Preparation Nobody Sees

July through November became a blur of early mornings and aching muscles. In 21 years of service, not once had I carried a ruck. Now I had four months to figure out how to walk nearly 50 miles with 80 pounds strapped to my body without completely destroying myself.

I started simple. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I’d throw on the ruck and walk for an hour. A few weeks in, I added Saturday sessions with a specific goal: six miles as fast as possible. Between the ruck training, unit PT, and strength training, I was doing more physical training than I had in years.

The training wasn’t just physical, though. The real battle was mental. Every morning I’d wake up with the same questions circling: Could I actually do this? What if I failed? What if I made a fool of myself, proved every Chair Force stereotype right in front of Marines and Soldiers?

I needed to prove something. Not just to them but to myself.

Day Zero: Already Out of My Depth

I showed up on Camp Humphreys 45 minutes early on check-in day, to sign for gear I’d never used: bivvy, bivvy cover, FLC, and an E-tool.

My ruck was already stuffed full. Now I had to fit all this additional equipment somewhere. Luckily there were a few Army guys in there already who were happy to help when I told them I was clueless. They showed me what to ditch, how to pack efficiently, how to distribute weight properly. Without them, I’d have shown up to the first event with a disaster strapped to my back.

We got assigned to our platoons and squads after everyone checked in. Tiger Platoon, Squad 3. One Marine, one Air Force guy (me), two Army, five Republic of Korea military members, and a KATUSA translator. Now we headed to the DFAC for dinner.

That meal was painfully awkward. Fifty-eight E9s from two different countries and four different services sitting in near silence, nobody making eye contact, thinking about what was coming. I sat with three other Air Force Chiefs and made some small talk.

Day One: Welcome to Misery

The first full day was a masterclass in discomfort. We bussed out early, rucked what felt like forever, navigated through unfamiliar terrain, and then met the equipment that would become the bane of our existence: zodiac boats.

They told us we wouldn’t get wet. That was a lie.

We hauled those inflatable monsters through terrain to the river, launched them, paddled downstream to retrieve supplies, then paddled back upstream through intentionally muddy hell. Everyone got soaked. Everyone’s carefully selected boots got trashed. I’d trained for months in my perfectly broken in rucking boots and now they were trash. So now I was stuck wearing the brand new boots I’d brough specifically for water that I was certain would destroy me.

But the real test came that night.

We slept in a building we’d captured during a mission, and I’d never used the military cold weather sleep system before. Laid out my bivvy on frozen concrete and climbed in, thinking I’d be fine. I wasn’t. Cold concrete draws heat out faster than you’d think. I froze all night. Eventually got up and put on everything I had: waffle top and bottoms, full uniform, extra socks, jacket, all of it.

Still froze.

Laying there shivering, I thought about that show my wife and I watch, Naked and Afraid. The contestants have a tap-out button. If I’d had that button, I would’ve pressed it. During the zodiac carry I’d tweaked my knee pretty badly, and now I started thinking about how I could go to the medics in the morning and claim it was too injured to continue. I could quit and save face.

I got maybe four hours of sleep that night, in fifteen-minute increments. It remains the worst night I’ve ever experienced.

Day Two: The Darkness Changes Things

The second day blurred together, more rucking, MEDEVAC scenarios, another cursed zodiac event where I had to pass off a water can halfway down a hill because my knee was screaming. But the night mission was different.

Something shifts when you’re executing a hostage rescue in complete darkness after two days of almost no sleep. The exhaustion strips away pretense. You stop worrying about looking stupid or incompetent because everyone’s too tired to care. We planned the assault, loaded magazines with blanks, and moved out. My squad drew the third floor.

I actually managed to “kill” an OPFOR member, which felt ridiculously satisfying given how out of my element I’d been. We secured the Mission Box and the hostage, helped carry a casualty back down. That night we slept in the building we’d raided, and after getting tips on staying warmer, I got nearly six hours of actual sleep.

Progress.

Day Three: Proving Something

The Air Assault Confidence Course was the event I’d been dreading most. Each squad went as a team, carrying a five-gallon water bucket through every obstacle without setting it on the ground. If you failed an obstacle after two attempts, the team got a penalty and you did burpees while everyone waited.

I was certain I’d be the weak link.

But our team had bonded by this point. We knew each other, knew how to work together. And somehow I completed every single obstacle unassisted. Only the ROK Special Forces member on our squad also managed that. We finished third overall.

After we completed the course, the Marine on our team said he was impressed by me. One of the Army guys told me I was his favorite Airman. Those comments erased more doubt than they’ll ever know.

The victory meal was yakisoba and cake at Ingman Range, followed by a small ceremony. We slept in the field that night. It was grossly cold and damp but nobody cared much anymore. We’d made it.

Day Four: Belonging

We rucked to the DFAC at 0600 where the USO and Red Cross had made about a thousand pancakes. This meal was the complete opposite of Day Zero. Instead of awkward silence, there was laughter and storytelling. People exchanged patches and coins. We sat there for hours just talking.

I sat with Air Force, Marine Corps, and Army guys and for maybe the first time in my career felt genuinely accepted by members of other services. Not looked at as “the Air Force guy.” Just one of them. I’d proved I could keep up. Earned their respect through the same suffering they’d endured.

Shared suffering, there’s magic in that phrase. The kind of bonding you can’t get from a leadership seminar or PME. When rank blurs and uniforms stop mattering, you see people as they are: tired, dirty, human.

At 0945, helicopters arrived. I rode back to Camp Humphreys in a Blackhawk, my first helicopter ride and a dream come true.

What I Learned When Everything Hurt

Mangudai wasn’t about winning events or proving I was tough. It was about discovering that the gap between who you are and who you think you can become is almost always smaller than you believe.

I went in terrified I didn’t belong. I left knowing I could hang with Rangers, Marines, and Special Forces operators because I’d done exactly that for four days straight. The brand of military I joined didn’t determine what I was capable of, my willingness to prepare and push through discomfort did. That’s something no badge or job can define.

Leadership under duress doesn’t look like control or charisma. It looks like consistency. When everyone’s exhausted and cold and ready to quit, people don’t follow inspirational speeches. They follow the person still putting one foot in front of the other. During the worst rucks, when the pain was unbearable and I wanted to quit, I just kept looking at the boot of the person in front of me and repeating: left, right, left, right, left. Just the next step. The only one that truly matters.

The most important lesson? We’re all capable of so much more than we think. I know that’s cliché. But it’s true. And sometimes you need to freeze on concrete and carry boats up mountains to really understand it.

I’ll keep pushing my Airmen to say yes to opportunities that make them uncomfortable. To embrace the fear and anxiety and unknown. To harness that discomfort as fuel for preparation. Because doing hard things makes you better. And doing hard things with other people makes you a better human.

That’s what Mangudai taught me. Not pride, not glory but perspective. The kind that only comes when you step out of your comfort zone and into the unknown, carrying more than just a ruck on your back.

That, and never trust anyone who says you won’t get wet.