* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate being cold. I am afraid of it, because once it happens, unless I find a heat source other than my own piddly engine, I remain cold. And the fear sets in that I will remain this way for all of eternity. And beyond.
When we picked up the West Coast backcountry skiing guidebook (John Baldwin's "Exploring the Coast Mountains On Skis"), our eyebrows remained in perpetual pop-up as we flipped through the dozens of tours: Length: 3 days. Length: 1-3 days. Length: 2-4 days. Length: 1 day (Distance: 27km). Length: 14 days. Er, where's the 1-day-back-before-midnight section?
I'd already demoted my mountain biking skill level last summer since moving here, and it seemed I might have to do the same with skiing.
Over the winter, with the help of local friends, or often on our own, we put a wee dent in the more than 300 trips in the book, as well as venturing out into some un-guide-booked territory. But all remained within that 1 day limit. I have a job to find, resumes to write... And I really don't like being cold.
 |
| Current temperature - April 7 |
Sleeping in a tent, in the snow, no hut, -25C, raging mountain winds, or worse, socked in by a cold damp fog... My last foray into the winter wild involved nearly freezing to death while wearing all my clothes in my seemingly useless sleeping bag, when the temperatures dropped well below what I had anticipated. But, this was not the Rockies, and the current temperature outside was in the far +'s... Could I make winter camping my friend again??
It occurred to me that I expend great reserves of energy fearing things which I know I am eventually going to do anyway. I get grumpy, angry, blame inanimate objects and shake my fist at nothing in particular, delving into a panicked search for that excuse that will secure my escape. ...I was recently bit by a dog (true story), and still anticipating the onset of rabies. ...I live at sea level now, and my lungs have shrunk to the size of a grape each. ...My ski boots smell like mouse poo when I take them off. Exhausted, I will sulk en route to the whatever the escapade, stewing over the evil forces (or friends, or boyfriend) that have put me in this intolerable situation to which any intelligent person would have put a stop at the first glimmer of thought.
So inevitably, I commit to the ski tour, adventure trumping fear. Looking on the bright side, hell's not likely to freeze over, so I might as well get on with it.
I nearly forget to pack a down jacket as I scurry around the house in happy-sunny-land shorts and t-shirt, collecting piles of gear. For future reference, I should just skip the fear mongering and save the energy instead to put towards my piddly engine for keeping warm.
