I had decided on a three-day trip up into the Enchantments, a string of tiny lakes nestled among the peaks of the Stuart Range in Washington's Alpine Lakes Wilderness. Candy-ass that I've admitted to be, this would be the latest in the year that I'd camped. I have taken time off in the middle of October off for the past five years and had wonderful weather: crisp, clear warm days, nippy nights, but DRY, so I could just build a nice fire and enjoy the stars. But this year was different: by the third week in October we'd already been hit with three major fall wet weather systems. One of them dumped record amounts of rain on western Washington (the flooding made the national six o'clock news), destroyed many back-country access roads and bridges, and dropped the first snows on the higher elevations. Another had left me a total of two consecutive days without rain out of twelve days off. So, conditions this year would be different.

The forecast for the three days ending on Hallowe’en was: a brief, intense windstorm coming out of the north bringing with it arctic cold out of Canada, accompanied by just a small amount of moisture, followed by several days of continued cold and calm. So it all sounded feasible (my tent is of the 'three-season' variety, as it wasn't designed for a snow-load; and I have plenty of cold-weather gear that I'd never really put to test).

I walked into REI the afternoon before the trip was to begin to pick up the two remaining essentials: a really warm pair of socks, and a map. But the very first thing I noticed when I walked in the door was the sleeping pad section (that, in itself, isn't really surprising; it's the very first thing on the left as you walk in -- but it's so typical: the first thing you need for a trip into the wild outdoors is something so you can become inert -- damn lazy-ass Americans!). I paused, thinking of what Leslie, our esteemed editor, once told me regarding cold-weather camping: your three-quarter length pad isn't going to cut it; you'll want to get your whole body off the cold ground. I pondered this, and then asked myself what part of my body would be hanging off, anyway? My calves and heels. I could deal with that. I recalled that my pad might have developed a leak over this summer. But I couldn't really afford a new pad right now, so I moved on.

The very next thing that appeared in front of me was a small package hanging from a rack, and it was called a 'hydration system tube insulating sleeve." I snorted in amusement (even though I have a "hydration system' with a "tube") and asked out loud, "Now who the hell would buy something as silly as that?" (The last time I'd been so critical of a new product I was at a Fred Meyer when I chanced upon a "personal shredder," which I thought at the time to be the silliest and most anal product in the world. Three days later, I was sitting in the King County Jail, the victim, I would eventually learn, of bank fraud and sloppy police work, all of which might have been prevented if I'd owned and used a "personal shredder." But that's another story.

I moved on, found the socks and map, bused home and packed. I thought briefly that it might be interesting to take a thermometer, but then I decided that having one of those with you is like weighing your fully-loaded backpack: it doesn't do any good, and can only make you feel even more miserable than you already are.

Wednesday morning, I caught Sound Transit to Everett, Community Transit to Monroe, and Northwest Trailways to Leavenworth (this trip is not yet in my Backpacking By Bus column, but it will be). Arrival in Leavenworth at two in the afternoon gave me three hours to cover the five miles of road to the trailhead, and the two miles of trail to the first possible campsite, before dark. I made it. As I headed up Snow Creek, I'd noticed a sheer cliff on the east side of the narrow canyon; the map identified it as the Snow Creek Wall. The base of it was only about fifty yards away from where I camped, on the opposite side of the creek. The campsite itself looked well- protected, as it sat between two massive cedars, and upslope there loomed two apartment building-sized boulders that weren't going anywhere. I stuffed down a cold meal and crawled into the tent.

Shortly thereafter, the first of many trains roared up the narrow canyon, the noise making sleep just not an option. It was the predicted windstorm. Every five minutes or so for the next several hours, another one thundered past. Snow began swirling around the tent.

Then several of the trains collided. I thought at first it was thunder, but it lasted at least thirty seconds and there was no lightning. I cowered and cringed, and tried to move out of the warm wet spot I'd created. I figured any second to be crushed by whatever part of the cliff wall had collapsed. When it became apparent that I wasn't going to die just yet, I considered that if part of the wall had indeed collapsed, it might have blocked the creek flow. So I slipped on my camp clogs (I was fully dressed in my sleeping bag) and ventured out into the swirling snowflakes. The creek didn't look any deeper than when I'd first arrived, but I noted its precise height against the rocks and crawled back inside. I checked it a few more times over the next hour until I was satisfied my campsite wouldn't be flooded as I slept.

Content that I would, indeed, live out the night, I tried to snuggle back down. But then I became aware that my sleeping pad did have a leak and that regardless of how I laid I was always aware of just how cold the ground was under me. So I wriggled about fitfully until it got light. I did put the newspaper section and my raincoat under my feet and calves; that helped a bit.

Over breakfast (freeze-dried beef stew! When it's this cold, cereal isn't worth the energy it takes to chew it!) I thought seriously about bailing now and running for the afternoon bus. But the storm had passed and the sky was clear; just a dusting of snow had fallen around my campsite. I decided I'd come too far to wimp out now, and figured I had all day to solve the cold ground problem. As I finished breakfast I walked to where I could get a better look at the cliff wall, but I could see no obvious fresh signs of slides anywhere on it. So I figured it must have happened upstream and out of sight.

I left the tent there, and as I packed for a day trip up toward the lakes I quickly found what I thought would be the solution to the problem: the space blanket that I always have tucked away for an emergency. So I finished packing up food and water and headed upstream.

The switchbacks started and the snow got deeper, but it was a lovely time. I had my "hydration system" on my back, as well as an additional half-gallon of water in hand. I could see the ice crystals forming inside the water bag I held, but it was getting enough of a shaking that it wasn't a problem. I'd occasionally take a pull from the "hydration system" so that it wouldn't freeze.

It was a delightful time! All my warm fuzzies worked splendidly and efficiently; and the only time anything got cold was when I took off my gloves to eat lunch, not wanting to get any food smells on them (not vanity! I'm careful about not getting any food on my clothes, lest the odors attract varmints!).

I learned that freshly-fallen snow is as revealing as wet sand at low tide: 'there went a rabbit, ..there a mouse crossed the snow from one hole under a rock to another, ..there was another mouse... there went a. ..weasel, maybe? after it. I anticipated finding a spray of blood and a few tufts of fur scattered on the snow somewhere along the line, but that never happened.

You can't move as quickly in fresh snow as you would on solid ground (though the snow squeaks and crunches charmingly - I love those sounds!), so I only reached the first lake, Nada Lake. While noting on the map that this lake is not even one of the Enchantments, I recognized that this was as far as I was going to get. The snow was, by now, about a foot deep, there was a lot of exposed ground to cover, along with substantial elevation gain, before I'd reach the next lake, as well as the fact that the trail was getting harder to follow in the deepening snow. Not to mention that the trail along Nada followed the shoreline really closely: sometimes I wasn't quite sure if what I was standing on was dry land or ice. According to my map, the trail along the set pair of lakes I'd reach followed the shoreline even more snuggly. Although I had dry socks in my jacket pocket I decided I didn't need to push my luck. I headed back downslope carefully.

Got back to camp in time to build a nice little fire (there were plenty of dead trees down nearby -- I noticed on the way in that there 'd been a fire at the mouth of the canyon, perhaps even earlier this year, and there was a lot of dead wood, both standing and fallen). Having gotten little or no sleep the previous night, I figured I'd have no trouble getting twelve hours of sleep tonight, provided I figured out a way to stay warm. So as I tucked myself into my sleeping bag a little past five in the evening, I unwrapped the space blanket, that sheer, almost weightless sheet of crinkly foil, and wrapped it around myself inside my bag. Worked perfectly: I could 've been sleeping on a block of ice and not known it.

I awoke at five and was on trail by 5:35, going for the 8:15 bus from Leavenworth (had I gone for the afternoon bus, I wouldn't have had enough time to really do anything, so, better to have the time to unpack back home). Not five minutes from camp, guided by my headlamp, I ran into a lot of trees down across the trail. Some I couldn't get over, and had to negotiate a way around. I silently asked myself, 'Now how did I get past these on the way in? I don't remember having all this trouble a day and a half ago. Why don't I remember how I did this?' Then I voiced a sudden, "Oh." The beam of my headlamp swept the slope above the trail to reveal a whole bunch of trees, newly toppled and shattered. "So that's what I heard!" This whole mess started no more than thirty yards downtrail from the campsite.

Nice walk back out. Thought I might be able to cadge a ride from someone heading to work, but that didn't happen. Was bitter cold, but I was working hard enough that I soon was down to one layer of polar fleece, head to boot-top. First time I tried to sip out of my water tube I got nothing, though. Squeezed the mouthpiece, pulled again. Nothing. Jumped up and down, and could feel the water sloshing around in the bag on my back. Closer inspection of the tube revealed that the water in it had indeed frozen solid. If I'd wanted to I could 've taken the pack off, opened the bag, and drunk from the intake valve, but it was only five more miles to town, and I really didn't want to miss that bus. Walking the last mile along Highway 2 as it passes through Leavenworth, I became aware that the occupants of passing cars were checking me out curiously. Maybe they thought I was in costume for Hallowe'en (tonight!). I reached the glass-sided shelter at the bus stop (both for Northwest Trailways - a subsidiary of Greyhound - and Wenatchee's Link Transit System) with fifteen minutes to spare. I shed my pack and slouched onto the wooden bench inside the shelter. As I sat there, sucking water out of the intake valve of my pretty-much-useless hydration system, and watching for the approach of the bus through the glass, I noticed in the reflection that I was steaming. From the top of my polar fleece hood to the bottom of my polar fleece long-johns, I was steaming profoundly! It was an awesome sight: I looked as if I might be about to burst into flames. It was the only Hallowe'en costume I had the energy left for, but it was effective.

How did I do? How did I like it? Would I do it again? My initial response reminds me of a passage in the journals of Lewis and Clark. In it, they relate how one day their men sought diversion by deciding to torment a brown (grizzly) bear. They emptied their rifles into it, then emptied their rifles into it again, and still it came after them. After they'd used up all their ammo, they fled in a canoe, trying to desperately to fend off the wounded but enraged beast with their rifle butts as it swam after them. The entry concludes with the subtle, "The curiosity of the men as regards this creature has pretty much been satisfied."

Add up the night twisting restlessly on the frozen ground after pissing my pants wondering if I would be buried in a rockslide, having my water freeze, and then learning that a substantial stand of trees had come crashing down not thirty yards from where I slept, and I at first was convinced that "my curiosity had pretty much been satisfied."

But since then I've reconsidered. I didn't do too badly. It would take just a few more things to make it comfortable; a new, full-length sleeping pad, a hydration system tube insulating sleeve, and a bit more discretion when selecting a campsite, and I might have been quite comfortable. At least until the snow starts to get deep: then a whole new set of variables get tossed into the mix, variables like "snow load" on one's tent, getting lost when one's footprints and the trail get covered over by more snow, falling through deep snow into holes, and avalanches. Now that's getting just plain foolish!

Get lost!

FROM THE FORTIFIED STORY VAULT:

Confessions of a Candy-Ass 2/01

Be The Duck - Waterproofing breathable fabrics 3/00

McBEE'S TRAVELS
by Dave McBee

(Find yet more McBee here)