Publications

AMC Outdoors, November 2000

By Katharine Wroth

In the dream, I am jubilant. "I went winter camping!" I shout to anyone who will listen. "I survived!" Moments later, I am awake. Shifting from past tense to present, I find that I am still in a frosty tent, miles from anywhere, stuffed in between my two bosses. One of them is snoring gently, the other lying as rigid as only a fully conscious person can. The gray light seeping through the canvas has not yet taken on the gleam of daylight. I take stock of my body, which aches from the limited space, the hard ground, the empty boots nestled under my knees. Despite my discomfort, I find pleasure in one fact: I am warm.

When my editors first suggested a winter-camping expedition, I just laughed. Then the idea crystallized, and I moaned about the possibility that I wouldn't live through the experience. Disbelief mingled with hope when Jane pronounced: "It's all in what you wear."

Dressing right in winter has never been my strong suit, from second grade — when I went out for recess in thin cotton socks and my red Snoopy galoshes, ending up with numb legs, tear-stained cheeks, and a shocked teacher hustling me inside — through college, when I proudly broke a pattern of sneaker-footed winters by buying uninsulated boots, then wondered why my feet were still cold.

I guess that's why, throughout my Maine childhood and college in western Massachusetts, I always hated winter. Oh, sure, occasionally I'd go skiing or ice skating. But I derived more happiness from ending those activities, from retreating inside to a warm house and a cup of cocoa. And my pre-AMC innocence was certainly never marred by the knowledge that there were people out there who enjoyed sleeping in the snow.

So I had doubts, to put it mildly. They increased when we received the list of gear we needed for our workshop. Nearly a page long, the clothes alone made my head swim. Gloves. Mittens. Liner gloves. Fleece pants. Fleece jacket. Long johns. Hat. Boots. Snow pants. Jacket. Balaclava. Gaiters. Socks. Socks. More socks. I was out of my league.

Even after I'd borrowed what I needed from the AMC and various family members, I imagined a weekend with feet and hands as numb as blocks of ice, or worse, painfully cold. Our arrival at Crawford Notch Hostel the night before the workshop did nothing to dispel my fears. A bitter wind howled among the cabins, toying with mounds of snow. At the end of our evening introduction, as I ran from the main lodge to my bunk, I let out a series of short, harsh curses and wished I were anywhere else.

But Saturday, my mood shifted with the milder weather. Having come to grips with my fate, I layered up — then, baking in the sun pouring through the hostel window, regarded my situation with a detached curiosity. How cold would we get out there? And how would we warm up?

Warming trend
I got one answer a few minutes later, when we piled out of the van — where we'd lodged like so many pieces of overstuffed furniture — and started snowshoeing. Movement, that's how we'd warm up. Within yards of our starting point, our group stopped in a patch of sunshine so we could peel away layers. Or, I should say, so they could. Off came shells and sweaters all around me. But I kept everything on, afraid to part with the promise of warmth. As we fluffed through the new snow, I delighted in the heat my body was producing — until our instructor laid down the cold fact that sweating too much during the day makes you more prone to hypothermia when night comes. I reluctantly took off my fleece.

Once we reached the campsite and managed to set up our tents — thus ending the sweat-producing segment of our day — we changed into dry clothes, to ward off the chill we'd get from lounging around in damp garments. This minor adjustment made a major difference in both comfort and attitude. It gave me strength to face the impending dark — and helped me avoid being jealous of Michy, who appeared stove-side in a head-to-toe down outfit. OK, I was a little jealous. But in a strange way, I was enjoying the cold.

For the next few hours, all our efforts went into making dinner. Unfortunately, there are only so many roles for six people when the equipment consists of one stove, one saucepan, and one Ziploc bag of macaroni. So my personal efforts went into eating chips and salsa, adjusting the number of hats I had on (I ended up with three), and furrowing my brow over the food situation when required.

As we ate and cleaned up, in gloves and hats and full winter gear, I felt a certain pride in joining those who don't limit their recreation to three seasons. There seemed to be a quiet acknowledgment between our campsite and the others scattered around it: We are rugged as hell.

When my bosses struck out toward the fire, I stayed behind, watching the full moon guard our quiet site. This had only partly to do with feeling poetic; it was also because I feared that getting warm by the flames would just mean feeling colder when I had to tear myself away. Their return signaled bedtime — what else was there to do? — and a bottle of hot water, a candy bar, and a winter sleeping bag provided consolation for having to strip off outer layers.

I can't pretend I spent a cozy night of unbroken slumber. But it wasn't the limb-losing nightmare I'd imagined. In the morning, I awoke to find that I was not only alive, but vaguely happy. Huh, I thought. Maybe it's time to give this winter thing a chance.

—Katharine Wroth is Associate Editor of AMC Outdoors.

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