Out in the Cold
By William Tucker

New York—My teenage son and I put in a lot of hours together in Boy Scouts. Then girls came along and he quit just short of his Eagle. It’s a sore point.

 

But he’ll still camp with me—including winter camping in New York state’s sometimes-deep snow. Last year we did an overnight at Harriman Park, a sublimely beautiful section of wild mountain 50 miles above New York City. Drive an hour from Times Square and you’re in 360 degrees of primeval forest. It’s also about 15 degrees colder.

 

Global warming took a vacation last year and there was more than a foot of snow on the ground. As we motored up the highway the thermometer registered a balmy 35 degrees, but the radio said a cold front was moving in. Our final destination was an open log shelter a mile up the mountain.

 

We started hiking. The drifts were deep. As we neared the top, the wind had leveled all the snow and there was no telling what was beneath. Step on a perfectly flat spot and you were hip-deep in snow, wrestling through a vat of molasses. It took us two hours to reach the shelter—twice normal. Still, we had an hour of daylight to pitch our tent and start a fire.

 

When you’re out in cold like this, you realize how much you depend on your own body. It’s 98.6 degrees in your gut, and zero outside, so you have to conserve that “slow burning” fuel inside. Our boots were soaked, so Dylan left his by the fire. I threw on a few extra logs, and we crawled into our sleeping bags by 9 o’clock.

 

Two hours later, Dylan went outside the tent. “Dad, my boots are gone.”

 

“Yeah, somebody must have taken them.”

 

“No, I’m serious. They’re not here.” Then a minute later, “Dad, I found a rubber patch. They must have caught fire.”

 

Now this is interesting. We brought several pair of socks, but no extra boots.

 

My impulse is to be upbeat. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something. Come get some sleep.” But what exactly are we going to think of? We’re two hours from the car. It’s painfully cold. We don’t have a cell phone. We have tomorrow’s breakfast and an hour’s worth of firewood, and nothing more.

 

What are our options? I could race back to the car, buy a pair of boots and hike up again. Dylan could go, flag a car, call the police. But I don’t like the idea of separating. I imagine trudging back in socks, my feet starting to freeze. I imagine panicking as frostbite sets in, and starting to run. It’s “To Build a Fire” all over again.

 

I try falling asleep. We’ll figure out something tomorrow.

 

Morning is incredibly cold. If I take my mittens off, my hands are instantly numb. I have to watch them as I build a fire to boil water for oatmeal and hot chocolate.

 

After breakfast I try putting on several pairs of socks and tying sleeping bag covers around my ankles. But the nylon is paper-thin, and my feet freeze in a second.

 

There’s only one thing to do. I will wrap my legs in the two sleeping bags. Stupidly, I have forgotten duct tape, the camper’s cure-all. I could have strapped the bags to my thighs. Now I’ll have to hold them up as I walk. As we pack, we discover the pot of water that was boiling not long ago is now frozen solid.

 

Walking is not as difficult as I imagined. Every twenty steps I have to stop and pull the sleeping bags up over my legs again, but my feet stay warm. In ten minutes we meet another hiker. We must look like the Donner Party, but we tell him everything is okay and keep going. Between the mountain ridges there is a small draw. I slide down one slope, then struggle up the other. It is impossible to get traction. I have to crawl on my stomach. Dylan waits patiently at the top.

 

Finally we reach the last lookout. The sun is dazzling, the view breathtaking.  I can’t help but love it.

 

Now we are giddy with confidence. We slip and slide down the mountain. A hundred yards from the road the zipper on one sleeping bag breaks. When we reach the car, though, my feet are warm and dry.

 

My clothes are twisted. Neither one of us are much to look at.

 

But we’ll be back next year.

 

 

William Tucker is a TAE contributing writer, and authors “Right Idea” at TAEmag.com.