AMC Outdoors, November 2000

By Jane Roy Brown

The more I struggled against gravity on the Ethan Pond Trail, the more I wondered why anybody — except, perhaps, someone training for an Arctic invasion — would want to schlep a 50-pound pack straight uphill more than three miles on snowshoes. Maybe I could pose this increasingly pressing question to the four people who had once more disappeared from view up the trail — if I could just catch up with them. Instead, I turned to our instructor, Correen, who was serving as sweep for our small expedition. Her pack weighed closer to 60 pounds, and yet, as she made her way steadily up the hill, she seemed downright serene.

"Do you do this when you don't have to lead workshops?" I asked.

"Sometimes," she said. "I do more backpacking in summer, but it's nicer in winter. There aren't as many people, no bugs, and you don't get as hot."

"Yeah," I murmured. Even at 32 degrees in wan sunlight, perspiration was already dampening the two layers of polypro under my (allegedly breathable) shell. I had only to envision a swarm of mosquitoes to complete my picture of hell. I shuffled my feet forward; my hip muscles burned. "Do you want to go ahead of me?" I asked.

"Oh, no," Correen laughed, "I like going slow."

Like it was a choice.

Arriving at Camp
Three hours after setting out, our party dribbled into camp. I was shocked, not having imagined winter camping to be popular, to see Ethan Pond Shelter and the nearby tent sites almost full. A boisterous party of about a dozen men had hoseyed the lean-to shelter, and several guys were feeding logs into a bonfire in front.

After we were out of earshot, Correen pointed out that fires were a no-no in today's Leave No Trace ethics, because, though comforting, fires endangered the woods and consumed food and habitat crucial to the skein of life in the forest — bacteria, fungi, insects, mosses, lichen, and the like. Our party, she reminded us, would not be building a fire. We would cook on the backpacking stove we had brought along. Although she had mentioned this earlier, the contrast between the bonfire's primal roar and the hissing blue flame of our gas stove sank in only now.

Moonlight Musings
By 3:30, the sun that had turned the fir-ringed expanse of Ethan Pond into a dazzling snowfield started to slide into the jagged treetops. Madeleine, Katharine, and I klutzily assembled our tent in the waning light; then it was time to make dinner. A pearly disk of full moon glowed in a peacock-blue sky. Perhaps it was that moon, but I kept thinking of astronauts as we struggled over our tasks with stiff, mittened hands. I'd love to say our meal of watery mac-n-cheese with chunks of cold veggie burger mixed in was delicious, the way people often speak of basic food tasting superlative outdoors, but all I can say is, well, it gave us calories.

After dinner some of us strolled to the lean-to, where the bonfire had melted a car-size pit in the snow. The laughing campers lining its rim beckoned us into their circle and proffered smoked trout and bourbon. "Gee, no thanks, we just ate," we murmured in righteous privation. As a Leave No Trace initiate, I felt ashamed of gravitating toward the fire and feared my shameless appetite for comfort would condemn me to life in an RV park.

At 8:00 the lean-to thermometer read eight degrees, and we hustled the 50 yards back to camp, hoping to capture the fire's warmth inside our tents. Alas, after post-holing through knee-deep snow to pee in the woods, precious little warmth remained anywhere in my person.

Later that night: Madeleine lies in a profound slumber. Katharine tosses, breathing like she's awake. Me, I have slept not a wink. I rarely sleep well, so this doesn't really surprise me, but my feet are wretchedly cold. After thrashing for hours in an effort to achieve peace with my hiking boots under my knees — a tactic Correen suggested to keep the boots toasty — I have finally kicked them to the foot of the bag. Just then I know I need to pee. Because warming urine in one's bladder consumes precious body heat, I fish out the dang boots, stuff my feet into them, and unzip two layers of tent, awakening Katharine. But I press on, crunching through the snow like Godzilla. The night is wildly luminous, with moonlight bouncing all over the snow and making dark parabolas out of the fir shadows. It is worth coming out just to see this.

Oatmeal and Hot Tang
Around 6:00, when I have just settled into a thin sleep, Robert awakens us. We open our eyes to a frost-lined membrane. My inner eyelids feel sandpapered, my brain and body sluggish with cold. Katharine's dazed eyes peer out of her bag — she's in a similar state. We linger in the tent as gracious Madeleine scuffles out to start the stove.

The temperature soars into the 20s as we breakfast on oatmeal, GORP, cocoa, and hot Tang. By this point I have no capacity for speech and choose only foods I can drink or chew without preparation. But Correen jump-starts our motor skills by making us pick every pea-sized pasta shell from last night's dinner out of the snow — standard Leave No Trace practice. I guess we do a good job: A gray jay, keeping a beady eye peeled for overlooked morsels, has to fly on to less careful campers.

By the time we get packed up and hit the trail at 9:30, my body has limbered and my spirits approach normal. A brilliant sun lights the glittering trail as we descend, and I know, then, that I am free to enjoy the day, liberated by the knowledge that I will never, ever need to do this again.

—Jane Roy Brown is Co-editor of AMC Outdoors.

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