What the heck happened?
Only a week ago I was bloviating about swimming in the lake in 60-degree temperatures in December, nonsensically trying to make a point about global warming, and here I am shivering like a wet Bichon Frise in a blizzard, all because I lack the sense God gave horseshoe crabs to scurry out of the elements when the wind chill plunges into the single digits.
Don’t get me wrong: I embrace frigid weather. I’ve climbed New Hampshire’s infamous Mt. Washington in February in minus-30 temperatures and winds roaring above 100 mph. I spent a week as a winter hut caretaker in the White Mountains when foolish pride kept me from lighting the wood stove and the indoor temperature hovered 24/7 in the 20s. I’ve slept in a snow cave I built, and also spent the night in a blizzard in a bivvy sack.
But on each of those adventures I had prepared, mentally and physically, for brutally boreal conditions, so the shock was less severe. As I’m fond of noting, there’s no such thing as bad weather – only inappropriate clothing.
In the past I’ve used this forum to discourse on my various cold-weather experiences and misadventures, and even devised my own Fagin Cold Scale, modeled after the Beaufort Wind Scale, that referenced such indicators as frozen eyelids and congealed peanut butter to measure various levels of frigidity.
So I won’t bore you with tales of braving the notorious Vento Blanco, or white winds, at 19,000 feet in the Andes, or crossing a glacier in the Alps, or glissading in the Himalayas, or standing on an iceberg in the Arctic Ocean, or any of the other bone-numbing conditions I’ve experienced.
Instead, I’ll bore you with the times I’ve frozen my gluteus maximus doing commonplace activities, such as re-roofing my house, which a carpenter and I completed last week. We had hoped to finish before the snow flies, but Mother Nature had other ideas, and let me tell you there are few experiences more chilling than standing on an aluminum ladder in December when the wind is blowing about 30 mph, especially when you need your hands free to snap a line.
Some of the deepest freezes I suffered were related not to carpentry but to cars.
In college years ago, a buddy and I were driving back to campus after a winter mountaineering weekend when my ancient Volkswagen Beetle threw a rod and we wound up camping in the snow for several days behind a repair shop waiting for a mechanic to finally decide he couldn’t fix it. Some of his reluctance may have been due to the fact we had virtually no money, but poor as we were I recall squandering 10 cents every day at Lou’s Diner, where we huddled for hours, in order to play on the jukebox “Happy Days are Here Again” by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos.
Anyway, we decided to ditch the car temporarily (my dad and I eventually towed it back home and had it repaired) and hitchhike back to campus. As the temperature plunged into the teens and darkness fell we stuck our thumbs out.
For some reason – maybe because we hadn’t bathed or shaved in a week and had enormous packs from which dangled snowshoes and ice axes – not many people stopped to offer us a ride.
By the time dawn broke, while wind whipped sand and salt in our faces, our boots had frozen in place near an entrance ramp of the turnpike. For several hours I despaired that this was where it would all end. A few hundred yards ahead we could see an 18-wheeler parked in the breakdown lane. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
We trudged up to the truck and pounded on the window. The startled driver, who had been napping, took pity on us – luckily, he didn’t take a tire iron – and drove us the last 100 miles or so. I still think about that long night on the side of the road as one of my coldest ever.
Another time when my car broke down – are you detecting a pattern here? – I finally decided to break down and buy a new vehicle, or at least a newer used model. A friend of a friend had one for sale but it took about a week to complete the paperwork, so I commuted to work 15 miles each way by bicycle. I should mention that it was the middle of February and I worked second shift.
One night it snowed to beat the band and I pedaled the last hour into a 30 mph gale – why hadn’t I asked a co-worker for a ride, or taken a taxi? – and upon hearing my travail the next day another friend decided to loan me his car until mine was ready. There was one problem: the driver-side window was missing.
Every afternoon I donned a mountaineering parka, heavyweight balaclava and over mitts before getting behind the wheel, but still arrived for work feeling like a member of the Scott Party on its doomed polar expedition. At night the ride home was even colder (oh, yeah, the car heater didn’t work), and after I finally staggered up the stairs my house felt like an igloo because the wood stove had died down.
So I guess I should stop whining about working on my roof after the season’s first icy blast. After all, it’s not even winter yet – the real fun has yet to begin.