Camping

The answer here is yes. I have been camping many times, and had fun most times. I’ve gone from sleeping under a plastic tarp, all the way to the motor home we lived in transitioning between military assignments.

Below is the text of a short story I wrote recently, recounting a time when I didn’t have much fun camping. I hope you enjoy.

No shit, there I was, up to my nuts in the snow.  That’s when I thought it might be time to unstrap the snowshoes from my pack and strap them to my feet instead.

How did I get there?  You might ask.  Just bear with me, as it might seem like I’m going off on a tangent.  I was a property owner at the age of twenty-three.  Then, just over two years later and just shy of declaring bankruptcy, I moved back in with my retired parents.  For additional perspective, my parents were the same age as most of my friend’s grandparents.  I was lucky to sell my property and get out with the shirt on my back.  An inconvenient little recession in the early 1990s that caused my income to drop by thirty percent turned my first foray into real estate investing into a total flop.

What I offer you is a true story, to the best of my recollection after thirty-one years.

A couple weeks into my new living situation, and I’m bored out of my skull.  I pass the time most days on snowshoes, maintaining my brother’s maple sap pipelines.  My construction job is sporadic at best in the early spring, while his family’s maple sugar business is kicking into gear.  I’m an avid hiker in the warmer season, while I nordic ski for fun and snowshoe for work in the winter.  I have never tried winter camping, however.

Andy, my recently ex next door neighbor, who also had no experience winter camping, and I hatch a plan to spend a couple days hiking and camping in the mountains of Vermont, in February.  If you are familiar with Vermont winter weather at the paltry elevations of two to three-thousand-feet, you might be right to question my judgement, or sanity.

We hoist our packs and shuffle through the fluffy ankle-deep snow covering the ground just off the trailhead.  Andy and I are in high spirits, with the sun shining in a clear blue sky visible through the leafless branches over our heads.  It’s a few degrees above freezing, but not yet warm enough to make the snow wet.  We anticipate the temps will be just below freezing a couple hundred feet up the mountain.  Wet is the enemy this time of year, but we should be good to go.  I am very familiar with this particular hike three seasons out of four, and I can usually make the summit, with its two-and-a-half-mile trail and two-thousand-foot ascent in less than an hour.  The southwest approach to the peak is steep, with lots of jumbled boulders to negotiate.  I have found in my travels that, though the elevations may be slightly lower, hiking the Green Mountains is more technically challenging than the Adirondacks to the west.  Our total planned trip for today is about four and a half miles to a three-sided shelter a couple miles north of the peak.  The summit being our midpoint, the second half of the trail will be a gradual descent of about eight hundred feet over more than two miles.

The climbing is easy, and my friend and I chat amicably about the times we had at my old place, mixed with our goals for this weekend hike.

“Remember back in December, when we froze our asses off watching the lunar eclipse?” Andy asks.

“Barely,” I reply.  We smoked so much weed I’m surprised we made it back into our houses.  I actually felt full and couldn’t smoke any more!”

Andy laughs at that.  “Yeah, we did.”

The snow depth is steadily increasing as we climb, and around five hundred feet up the slope it is now waist deep.  We each have old fashioned New England bear paw style snowshoes of ash and rawhide strapped to our packs.  They are not my favorite style for climbing.  Tailless, with an upturned toe as a compromise for loose snow on level ground, they are harder to kick into the slope than my usual straight-toed bear paws, specifically designed for hilly terrain.  But I had two pairs of these, as opposed to one of my usual, and I didn’t want to disadvantage Andy, who had none of his own.  All of my snowshoes are basically family heirlooms.  The modern aluminum and plastic shoes I see in the climbing shops are a bit too rich for my broke ass.  We strap them on our feet and continue the climb.

It’s slow going.  With my preferred footwear and no load, I could be flying up this hill, but fifty pounds on my back, and less than optimal snowshoes, reduces me to a crawl.  Andy, not accustomed to snowshoes, is even slower.  Our friendly banter of a couple hours past is gone, replaced by the grunts of exertion, interspersed with curses.  At least the deep snow blankets much of the rock tumble we would scramble over in the summer.

Working and playing in the winter requires many more calories than other times of year, and I spend most of my time not in bed outside, so I tend to load up on fat in my winter diet, just to maintain my weight at around one-hundred-eighty pounds.  I’m six-foot-two, and I got all the way down to one-sixty last winter, when I had to choose between food, or gas to make it to work.  That was not a pretty sight, and I will do my best to not repeat the performance.  My choice of food for the trip is beef kielbasa, since it’s high in calories, and not likely to spoil quickly.  Already pre-cooked in the package, I forewent cooking it at home, to avoid rendering off any of the precious fat.  I am regretting that choice now.  Half-frozen unfried Polish sausage is not the most appetizing thing to snack on.  I gnaw on it anyway, while we trudge across a rare level section.

The sky darkens ominously.  Yesterday’s forecast did not predict snow, but today is a new day, and I should have listened to the weather on the radio this morning.  Sure enough, heavy wet flakes begin falling from the sky and a warm wind picks up.  Before long, it’s snowing sideways.  The air temperature is just above freezing, and the storm drenches our windward sides.  We trudge onward, turning our faces from the gale.  Soon, the wet snow has soaked our outer layers on all sides.

After what seems like forever, but was really only twenty minutes or so, the snow lets up, and the skies clear.  Along with the clear skies comes a precipitous drop in temperature.  A cold front has moved in, which explains the unexpected snow squall.  It’s now in the low teens and dropping, but at least the wind has died down.  Our outer garments are now frozen, making movement much more difficult.

“You doing okay?” I ask.

“Been better.  My water bottle is freezing up, and it’s hard to choke down this granola with nothing to drink.”

I’m having the same issue.  At least kielbasa is easier to swallow without a drink.  Keeping the bottles upside down in the carriers worked to keep the mouths clear of ice for a while, but the temperatures have dipped to where the entire outside layer of water is freezing now.  Our canteens will be solid before much longer.  I suggest we put them inside our parkas.  The hip belts of our packs will keep them from falling out.  Unfortunately, now we have to open our jackets and lose heat every time we want a drink.

Onward, ever onward we trudge. 

Trudge is an odd word, isn’t it?  The Cambridge Dictionary defines it:  “to walk slowly with a lot of effort, especially over a difficult surface or while carrying something heavy.”  The word sounds like the action, much like its synonym, plod.  The word dates back to the sixteenth century and its origin may be Scandinavian, and describe walking in snowshoes, though no one is exactly sure but “trudja” is Swedish for snowshoe. 

By the absolute definition, the word origin, and the spirit of the word, we are definitely trudging, and we are exhausted. 

Six hours into our journey, we are still a couple hundred feet shy of the top of Belvidere Mountain.  We only have a couple more hours of daylight.  We could make the top before dark, but that will put us at the timberline, exposed to the elements.  Not something you want to do in a three-season tent.

“I think we should find us a flat spot and pitch the tent,” Andy declares.

“Prob’ly so,” I agree.  “Theres no way in hell we can make it to the shelter at this rate.  It’s still over two miles away.”

“We can get to the top and climb the fire watch tower in the morning.”

“Yeah, we can do that at least.  The view is wicked from up there.  I don’t think we’re going to manage the whole route like we planned.  No way we’re making it to Hazen’s Notch in another day, if we can’t go any faster than this.”

“Yup.  We should probably do the summit and turn back to your truck tomorrow.  Then we’ll head to the notch to pick up mine.”

We find a flat area and work to stomp down all the snow in a ten-foot diameter circle and pitch the tent.

I hang my soaked and frozen hat, parka, and surplus East German wool pants on a tree limb, hoping for some overnight freeze drying.  Andy does the same with his outer gear and we retreat into the tent, where we set out our self-inflating sleeping pads and sleeping bags.  It’s tempting to blow into the filling valve, like I do in the summer to firm up the mat, but in the cold the moisture from my breath will condense and freeze, making the mat impossible to roll up in the morning.

We get halfway into our sleeping bags, and Andy assembles his camp stove.  It’s a compact model that runs on white gas.  Butane stoves are useless in the cold, and propane isn’t much better.  Not designed for winter, the tent is well ventilated, so we don’t need to worry about carbon monoxide, but due to the fire danger, we will only run the stove while we are awake.  My sleeping bag, rated for minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit, should keep me warm tonight.  We welcome the meager heat that allows us to thaw our numb fingers, and we break out our evening rations and what’s left of our water to wash them down.  We will have to melt snow for water in the morning when we break camp.

“Damn, it’s cold!” my friend declares, as we settle into our bags to sleep.  He shines his flashlight on the clip-on thermometer he brought.  “It’s already down to five degrees in here.”

I’m comfortable enough in my bag, but my head is cold, so I pull the hood over and cinch the drawstring, so only my face pokes out.  I regret not adding a spare wool cap to my supplies.

It’s getting colder, and even with the bag’s hood, my head is cold.  I feel around for the sleeping bag stuff sack, and roll it up into a makeshift cap.  The extra layer helps with my head, but my whole body is becoming chilled.  I can’t see the thermometer, but I’m sure it’s below zero.

Loud popping sounds begin emanating from the forest around our tent, staring with just a few, but increasing in frequency.  I noticed earlier that most of the beech trees suffered from frost crack scarring, and that’s what is happening now.  Soon, it sounds as though we are in the middle of a heated firefight, as tree trunks all around us split from the rapid freezing.  Eventually, the noise tapers off, as everything that was going to split had split.

Between the noise and the cold, I get no sleep.  I begin to realize that my old sleeping bag may no longer be good for twenty below.  It could also be that a negative twenty bag will keep you alive down to that temperature, but not necessarily comfortable.  I’m at the point now that I don’t dare sleep, for fear of not waking up again.

Andy sleeps fitfully, so I know he’s still alive.  His bag is brand new, so probably keeping him a bit warmer than mine is for me.  I should have brought an extra tarp to roll up in.  Wearing extra clothes inside the bag will not help keep me warm, as it would only insulate my limbs from each other and my trunk.  I sit up and hug my knees to my chest inside the bag, resolving to stay awake and keep an eye on my friend.

 “You alive Andy?” I croak, as dawn begins seeping through the translucent panels of the tent.

“Barely,” he responds.  “Damn it’s cold!  How are you doing?”

“I’m alive.  Got to the point last night that I didn’t dare go to sleep.  I think I need a new bag.”

“It’s ten below in here,” he declared after retrieving his thermometer.  “I wonder how cold it is outside the tent?”

“Five to ten colder, I would bet.”

“I’m not having fun anymore,” he states, and proposes:  “Why don’t we screw the peak and head our asses back down?”

“Sounds like a plan.  Let’s get dressed, break camp and go.”

We know we should melt snow for water, but we just want to get off the mountain, so we pack up the camp stove and our sleep gear.  Clad in our long underwear, boots, and fleece jackets, we exit the tent to find our outer garments hanging from the trees, stiff as plywood.  Very little of the hoped for freeze drying actually happened, but we are able to wedge ourselves into our trousers and parkas.  We did bring spare gloves and liners, which we slept with, so our fingers are not too cold yet.

Fully dressed now, our clothing feels like suits of armor, bending only at the joints.  We pack up the tent, strap on our snowshoes, hoist our packs, and head down the hill. 

We made it just over three-thousand feet, a tad shy of the thirty-three hundred forty-six-foot summit and its fire watch tower.  The climb would have afforded us a magnificent view of the valley and the old Belvidere Asbestos Mine, but we are cold, tired, hungry, thirsty, and completely lacking any semblance of a sense of humor.

Down proves to be much faster and easier than up.  I try “glissading” as I once saw it illustrated, using the snowshoes as skis, and end up face-first in the snow.  This brings back Andy’s sense of humor, if not mine.  I try again, this time squatting on the shoes leaning back, and gripping the sides like I am sitting in a sled.  This works much better, and I manage about fifty feet before the slope levels out, and I grind to a halt.  Andy follows suit, and we shuffle to the next steep section and repeat the process.  I figure we are descending about four times as fast as yesterday’s ascent.  Our humor improves, and we are soon laughing and joking again.

We started with numb toes and fingers, exacerbated by mild dehydration, but I can now feel my fingers and the toes of my left foot.  My right foot is still completely numb.  I check the time and see we’ve been hiking for forty-five minutes or more.  This is not a good revelation; that is far too much time to have no feeling at sub-zero temps.

“Andy, can you feel your fingers and toes?”

“Yeah.  I’m good.  You?”

“Can’t feel my right foot yet.  I gotta loosen this binding.  It’s cutting off my circulation.”

I bend down to loosen the strap a notch, and we continue on.

About fifteen minutes later, I’m screaming in pain as my toes regain sensation.  I’m quite sure they can hear me miles away in Eden, down in the valley.

“You alright?” Andy asks.  “Feeling back in your toes?”

“Yeah,” I grunt back.  “Pretty definitely sure I got frostbite though.”

“Do you need to stop?”

“I’d love to, but the worst thing I could do is to let them get cold again.  Let’s just get back to the truck.”

We continue on.  My toes hurt, but not unbearably so.  Better to just keep moving now.

After only two and a half hours hiking, we are back at the trailhead and the shallow snow.  Today, the snow is crusted over with ice, so we keep the snowshoes on until we are back at the truck.  Better to float on top than to punch through a layer of ice in just our boots.  The temperature down here is in the mid-teens, not too uncomfortable at all.  We doff our packs, snowshoes, and parkas, stowing them in the bed of the old Ford Ranger, borrowed from my dad, before I fish out my keys to unlock and start the truck. 

Andy straps down our gear while I sit in the cab and remove my right boot and sock.  My big toe looks as though it’s made of white wax, and my smaller toes are red and slightly swollen; frostbite and frostnip, respectively.  I knew that before, from reading and pictures, but now I have first-hand empirical evidence in front of me.

“Dammit!  I definitely got frostbite,” I announce, as Andy hops into the passenger seat.

“Bad?”

“Looks like second degree,” I answer.  “I can still feel my toe, but there’s a good chance I’ll lose some skin.”

He turns on the radio as we roll out of the parking lot.  After a few songs, the news and weather come on.  We hear the weather man announce tonight’s expected temperatures for the local area, to include a forecasted forty below zero for elevations above eighteen-hundred feet. 

“Good thing we called it quits when we did,” he remarks.

“Yup,” I concur.  “I nearly didn’t live through twenty below last night.  I don’t think we could have handled much colder.”

“Let’s get on home.  Are you going to be able to keep off your feet for a few days?  Your toes might heal if you do.”

“Not likely.  Maybe a couple days, if this cold holds out, but as soon as it warms up, I’ll be out on the sap lines.  I’ve got a roof job for Karl and Rick this weekend too.”

“They hiring you back already?

“No.  This is just a one-off, until work picks up in the spring.”

“Too bad.  I’d like to see you back in the islands again.”

“Even if I do go back to work for them, I’ll be commuting to wherever the work is.  I can’t afford a place in North Hero anymore, and half the time, the jobs were closer to my folks’ house than mine.  I don’t have a wife with a paid off house to stay with.”

“Fair enough,” he replied.  “Of course, my brother-in-law died for her to get that house, and I have a stepdaughter to take care of, along with the wife and house.”

“Sorry, man.  I didn’t mean anything by that.  I miss him too.  He was a good neighbor.  AIDS is a bitch.”

“Damn right it is.”

Well, I didn’t make it over that mountain this time, but there’s always next year.  I’ve got other mountains to climb, most importantly, the one where I climb out of depending on my parents and get back to some semblance of my former life.

I had no idea this was the last time I would see Andy.  Nothing bad happened, as far as I know.  We just drifted our separate ways, as has happened for me too many times over the years.  I’ve realized that a major mountain for me is maintaining connections with people I care about.  It is one I need to surmount soon, before it is too late.