AMC Outdoors, November 2000

By Madeleine Eno

I'm sure we could have survived a week in subzero temperatures with the amount of food we ate on the drive north from Boston that afternoon. But when Correen started talking that night in Crawford Notch Hostel about the massive number of calories expended just keeping warm and how the first thing you need to do when you start shivering is put something in your stomach — even though mine was uncomfortably full — I was right there with her. I made a mental note for the weekend: Keep eating all you can.

The next day, in the crackle of bitter dawn — our breath visible even inside the bunk room — we crunched to the lodge across a sheen of new snow under benevolent-looking blue skies. I had been keen on the trip since we'd planned it several months before, but when Correen showed us our food supplies — oatmeal packets, pasta, frozen veggie burgers, candy bars, cookies, crackers, Tang, tea, coffee, powdered milk, pancake mix, cheese, brown sugar, raisins — any lingering worry about the cold abated. I wanted to start jamming every last item in my backpack, but then she brought up the issue of pack weight: we'd need to use some discretion.

While another cozy group staying at Crawford's was eating pancakes and talking about where in North Conway they would go out to dinner that night, we all democratically decided how much macaroni, tea, coffee, milk, and veggie burgers we were likely to consume and divided the slender portions among our packs. Correen described the medicinal use of the Milky Ways, 3 Musketeers, and Kit Kats piled in the middle of the floor: Always keep a few high-calorie treats in the sleeping bag at the ready for midnight cold attacks. Me, I was very willing to keep candy bars in my bed. I grabbed three of them.

Soon enough, we were off and running and dripping with sweat. We stopped after about an hour and a half, in a protected glade dappled with gentle sun. Sitting on the backs of our snowshoes, we dug into our lunches. I had a tofu and tomato salad I'd brought from home and one of my candy bar stash. So far, I figured I'd already consumed about 3,600 calories this morning. At this rate, I was going to have to snowshoe uphill for about 48 straight hours to burn it off — but, hey, at least I'd stay warm. The cold had settled deep and quickly in my bones once we stopped moving.

After we pitched our tents at the campsite, we spread our sleeping pads in the snow to watch Correen's technique for deftly firing up the stove. The steady, finger-thin flame burned mightily as the sun grew thinner in the sky and the air began to bite at our faces.

Bubble, Bubble, Boil and ... Nibble
Michy and I scooped snow into a big saucepan and prematurely opened the packs of shells and powdered cheddar — ready for that turbulent, rolling boil to start anytime. But it would be another hour before faint bubbles appeared on the surface. In the fully descended dark, we served our quiet, huddling cohorts their dinner of pasta and crumbled veggie burger. My mittens were frozen from the water I'd drained from the pot, which made it difficult to spoon the mixture into the small plastic bowls. A beam of full moon helped me see where I was dropping precious pieces of pasta into the snow.

I devoured my share — finding it incredibly delicious — and evidently burned right through the warming calories. Seeking another source of heat, Jane and I wandered over to the neighboring bonfire. We talked with them about topics ranging from winter and snow to ice and freezing temperatures, as I recall, and stood so close to the fire I thought my boot soles would melt.

My Puritanical expectation about this experience had been that it would make us stronger, hardier people. But walking back through the brittle cold, casting my eyes up at the star-dotted sky, the canopy of hemlock and spruce above us, and the simple arc of my breath leaving my mouth, I saw that it could also make us softer and so much more alive in this season where we hold our bodies so rigid. We got ready for our moment of truth. Time to get into the tent for the night.

I wrenched off my boots, slid down my face mask, and climbed into my bag. We lay in the pitch dark, laughing at the random locations our work brought us to. I thought of a night a few years ago where it was much colder than this inside Zealand Falls Hut. I had been so sure I would die of exposure that I dragged everything from my backpack — and the backpack — to cover me. By comparison, this felt downright toasty. The hot-water bottle in my bag cranked like a radiator. We grew quiet, and I heard the rustle of paper next to me. "When am I ever going to be able to eat a candy bar in bed again?" Katharine asked the night, all concern for her teeth set aside in these extreme conditions. I fell dead asleep before I could unwrap mine.

We'd agreed that the first person up would light the stove and get the morning's water heating. At 6:00, I woke to hear someone clanking around and felt secretly grateful that it wasn't going to be me. I turned my masked face to see if my tentmates had survived. "Hey, someone slept all night," said Katharine. I scratched at the ice that had formed around the mouth-opening of my mask and looked over to where she lay zipped entirely into her bag. Uh-oh. This would be a long day for her with no sleep. "Sorry," I said, feeling worse when I spotted Jane's red, wild eyes peering at me from the corner.

Robert called for help, having trouble with the stove. He was persistent. Together, we got it lit and gathered another great pot of snow — I now knew I'd have a long while before breakfast would be ready, but I wasn't hungry. I followed the melon-colored glow of sunrise down to the pond, crunching by the snoring fireside revelers. A gray jay sang from a spruce in front of me.

Here I was. Here he was. There were Jane and Katharine curled inside the tent in their powerful down bags — maybe even dozing. All around me, the morning light filtered in, holy and golden. I loved not having to describe it to anyone, or talk about backpack straps or stove fuel or other, colder winter adventures. In this small moment of breathtaking solitude, our trip suddenly made perfect sense. I thanked the persnickety stove and sat down on a log to watch the show. Yes, you made it through the night and here is your rich reward, said the sun to me.

—Madeleine Eno is Publisher and Co-editor of AMC Outdoors.

 Chilly Scenes of Winter, Intro  |  Sleepless in Siberia  |  The Insider  | 
License to Eat  |  What We Learned