COLUMN: Winter camping, the coldest way to die
When I was 13 years old, I made two major personal promises that have affected my life even until now.
For the life of me, I can’t remember the first one, but the second was a decision to never go winter camping again.
Before moving to the United States from the warm, comfortable, equatorial climate of Singapore when I was 11, I never really had the opportunity to camp very much, especially in cold weather. I loathe winter.
I endured my first two harsh winters as a U.S. resident in Virginia, where I thought I would die a horrible frozen death every day at school during recess. Then someone who called himself a “leader” decided it would be to our benefit take a bunch of us Boy Scouts on a camping trip in February.
“Winter camping is great,” they all said. “There aren’t any mosquitoes.” After enduring a week at summer camp and returning home looking like I caught the chicken pox a second time, the invitation sounded very appealing.
I hated every minute of that frigid outing that didn’t occur half a foot from the roaring fire. Golly, it must have gone down to 31 degrees that night!
I more resembled a meat locker item than a Boy Scout.
Unfortunately, as a 12-year-old boy, I was very clumsy. I must have hit my head on too many hard objects, because I decided to go winter camping again the following year. That’s when I made my official decision.
Of course at the time, I had no idea that I would ever reside in Utah, or what I have heretofore affectionately called The Frozen Tundra State.
Here in Cache Valley, it is practically impossible not to go camping in the winter. Nine months out of the year, any trip can be threatened by the onslaught of snow or even worse, a canyon wind.
Also, folks here have tried to confuse me about winter camping. Back home, the annual winter district camp is aptly called the Freeze-O-Ree.
Whether it was sunny and 70 degrees outside or 20 degrees and sleeting, as soon as I heard the name Freeze-O-Ree, I would immediately devise a brilliant excuse to be absent, like the great need to wash my hair. .
Here in Logan, the local districts call their winter scout camp the Winter Klondike.
What the hell is a Klondike anyway?
I just assumed it was an outing that ended by handing out the popular frozen novelty dessert. I really like those.
It turned out that what I had to do for a Klondike was endure an overnight camping trip where I got blanketed in 8 inches of snow.
I was duped!
Klondike bars were never to be seen, and all I got from the trip was meat-lockeritis.
Obviously, my personal promise had been broken. Since then I’ve had to relinquish my abhorrence for winter camping and admit that I can’t be a very effective Scoutmaster if I only go camping during three months of the year.
This winter I traded a Klondike attendance for wisdom teeth removal. No complaints here.
Tonight I get that opportunity once again to go camping in the Frozen Tundra State. Even though it is April, be assured that I will be dressed like an Eskimo.
I’m not sure where we are going, except that it is near a town called Snowville. That’s enough to make me go wash my hair.
I can’t wait for summer.
Columnist Garrett Wheeler can be reached via e-mail at wheel@cc.usu.edu.