Hypothermia
by Chris Carleton
The trail didn't make sense anymore. Half way around this small lake, tarn, Ben corrected himself—it was important to use the right terms—the trail had petered out.
Facing him, a rock wall rose up steeply, blocking his way and jutting out into the tarn. Had he missed a branch in the trail that went up and over this? Behind him he could only see a faint trail fading into the dense forest near the water's edge. He could backtrack to see if there was a fork somewhere in there, or, he glanced at the shallow water to his left, he could skirt the rock by walking through the water. No worse than fording a stream, and a lot quicker than retracing his steps. On the other side, he could pick up the trail.
For the first few steps, the water only came up to his ankles. It was icy—this high up in the Rockies it always was—but the cold was still muted, held out by the waterproofing on his boots. Using the rock for balance, he leaned towards it and kept both hands on its rough surface as he worked his way towards its most distant point. The water went above the top of his boots, but its weight pressed against his gaiters, forming a fragile seal. For an instant, he thought he might keep his feet dry, but his next step brought in a trickle of cold, and, when the water rose above his gaiters, he felt the freezing compression of the lake in his boots.
Frantically, he sloshed his way around the rock, clinging to it in fear of losing his balance to his heavy pack. He pushed thigh level water for only a few steps, before he was nearing the edge, carefully, though pointlessly, choosing submerged stones to step on. On the shore, he watched water weeping out of his gaiters, where it was quickly absorbed in the thin, grassy soil.
Looking up, he saw only thinning trees leading up to a sub-alpine valley. What discomfort he felt subsided, replaced by confusion. There was no trail to pick up on this side. Frustration now replaced his confusion. What he wanted was to be on his way, to pound the trail without worry. There was a certain rhythm to hiking he liked to achieve that brought peace, as if his mind devolved, and he became a lesser homo sapien, knowing without thinking.
Off-trail, wet, and angry, he resigned himself to not reaching that peaceful, mystical state today. Going up the bank, each boot gurgled, then made hissing squishes. If he changed his socks now and drained his boots, his feet might get dry by the end of a day of good weather, but there was no chance of that. Grey sealed the sky with drizzle.
He stopped walking so he could think. He needed to know exactly where he was. Leaving camp, he had turned left to get on this trail, which made sense because he had turned left to get into camp. He believed he had just continued down the trail, but obviously that wasn't correct. He had to remember what the map looked like. By the time he had set up camp, eaten, cleaned up, and hung his food, it had been near dark. He'd used that time to gather some branches to make a small fire. That's when he'd looked at the map. He remembered being disappointed that it was too dark to orientate it to his surroundings, so he used his compass to line it up with north. No problem there.
He should take the map out of his pack now and get orientated. Further up the bank there was shelter in the evergreens. Imagining himself sitting in their shelter, he saw fat drops working their way through branches to softly pelt his map. No, he just needed to think. He could visualize the map if he thought backwards to the time he had last looked at it.
Breakfast and getting on the trail were rushed because of the overcast sky, but he had taken the precaution of putting on his rain pants and coat. He hadn't slept well. He often didn't in the backcountry. The first few nights were always uncomfortable, involving constant changes of position, and, last night, with each change, recurring but indistinct troubling thoughts, like the feeling of being ready for something uncertain.
Before trying to sleep he had used his headlamp to read, and he still had it on when he was looking at the map by the fire. Okay, now he was back to the fire and looking at the map. The trail was the red line. It led to the tarn where he was now standing. If he followed it back into camp, he would have to turn right. If he continued straight past the camp he would hit the main trail, where he would have go left to continue on his way.
It was so obvious now! He had turned the wrong way. This morning, he'd gone left again out of camp as if he was already on the main trail, but he was on a side trail to this stupid lake.
An hour and a quarter to get here. An hour and a quarter to get back. Two and a half hours lost. So much for the early start and then some. He let his arm fall. Screw it. There was nothing he could do about it now except to head back the way he'd come.
Through the water again. This time he went deliberately. No need to rush and no chance of getting any wetter than he already was. Picking up his pace, he regained the trail, hoping to make up some of his lost time.
What a stupid mistake. This was exactly the kind of thing he'd read about and swore he'd never do. But he had. He had just kept blundering on toward the lake. Even as the trail grew fainter, he just kept going. The trail had petered out because people don't bother to hike around a lake when they're on a side trip just to look at it. He might have clued in at that point, but no, he had actually hiked through the lake!
He forced himself to slow down. He had a long day ahead of him, including crossing Badger Pass. With the rain and the cold—he could still see his breath—he couldn't tire himself early. Slow down and think. Everyone makes mistakes in the backcountry. It wasn't like he had hiked through the middle of the lake. Just a few steps. No worse than fording a stream. It wasn't like he had gotten lost. He'd figured his way out. He was back on track now. He hadn't gotten lost at all. Anyone who'd spent any time in the backcountry had gotten lost at least once. This was nothing like that.
No. Being lost, now that was fear. It was a good way to see nature for what it was. Mute. Indifferent. Impenetrable.
But that's what kept him coming out here every off-season. There wasn't a single thing about nature that was like humanity. That's what made it compelling. Being out here alone—it had to be alone—was like being drawn in to see a little more of what you could never understand. It held a beauty that you couldn't think about. That was what he loved about it.
He was now back at the trail to the campground. A little time gained, but not much. His boots had stopped gurgling, but they were still soaked. Putting on a new pair of socks meant he would have to stop, take off his pack, take off his pack cover, open his pack, thus letting in the rain, get out his stuff sack, dig around for new socks, get the stuff sack back in, close up the pack, find a place for his sopping wet socks, cover the pack, and get his dry socks on. He thought about the slight feeling of warmth those new socks would give before they too became soaked, but then remembered that all his socks were in the bottom of the stuff sack that held his sleeping bag. No way he was taking his sleeping bag out in this rain. Wool socks still insulated when they were wet. He'd be okay.
Back on the main trail now. It was well defined, like an incision, running up into a lush sub-alpine valley, and then into the clouds. Steady rain. The key was to get into a rhythm where you didn't overheat. Waterproof jackets and pants might claim to be breathable, but you could sweat them up very easily and find yourself soaked inside and out. The body had to be kept comfortable to keep the mind comfortable.
But neither was happening today. His arms were cold, and he was irritated by how water seemed to be creeping in around his wrists. Maybe it was his arm action with the hiking poles, pumping it in, making his forearms wet. He needed to stop to put on his wool sweater, so he dropped his pack. No matter how careful he was, a single day of this kind of rain would make everything in his pack feel damp, if not outright wet. After slipping the cover off his pack and undoing its lid, he hurriedly grabbed the red stuff sack that held his cold-weather clothes. It was covered in dark blotches before he even had it open. Pulling out what he thought was his black sweater, he held up a pair of long johns. Despite feeling the gooseflesh on his thighs bristling against his rain pants, he set aside the underwear. Putting them on would be nothing short of an acrobatic feat in this sodden meadow.
He quickly shed his jacket, slipped the sweater on, instantly feeling warmer. Putting his jacket back on, he mistakenly put his left arm through the armpit vent twice before finally getting zipped up. That was better. Moving again. His feet felt chilled, but moving again would warm them.
The rain became mist. He was in the clouds. As a child, he'd always imagined the inside of a cloud as a soft, cotton-balled fog. They weren't like that. They isolated you by keeping their distance. No mountain peaks in sight, though he knew he was amongst them and could sense them. Not much to see. There were only the occasional clusters of stunted pines this high up. They stood in tight circles, turned away from you like old ladies gathered to gossip. He wondered why they grew like that. Warmth? No. That didn't matter to trees. Water conservation? Maybe. Resources? That was it. They probably all grew in that spot because that's where the good soil was. That made sense. They didn't need each other; they just happened to be thrown together in the same space. Flowers were different. Sometimes in groups; sometimes on their own. There was one in front of him that appeared to be growing out of a waist high boulder. Just a pinch of soil in there.
He saw the first of the snow land on that flower, bending it over. The flakes were huge, sopping full of water, and interspersed with rain. When he looked ahead, the meadow seemed to be tinted, lightened by the snow moving across his field of vision. A flake went down his neck, stuck, then melted. His wiggling did nothing to stop its chilling descent, chased by a shiver running through his body. His hat was soaked, as was his hair, and his head felt cold the moment he put up his hood. He tightened it, then felt a slight warmth. He knew this kind of snow and there was no keeping it out. It hit, stuck, and in the instant it took to melt, it seemed to coil and then slither into any space on your body that wasn't already wet.
The trail was sloppy. Much more snow would have to fall before it would accumulate and cover the path, and even then the depression would still be visible. He had to be vigilant though. When he made it to the alpine area of the pass, there might only be shale. There wouldn't be much to see there.
Steady uphill was tiring, but he pushed himself harder, though he wasn't sure if he had been slowing down. His toes felt a little numb, but they always felt different in hiking boots. He could feel the wet creeping up the wool on his sweater's sleeves, making his arms wet from the elbow down. His chest was clammy. Water was dripping down his face, sliding down his neck.
There was no defence against slop like this other than hunkering down in a shelter. To be working in this kind of weather you had to sweat, yet you had to stay dry to stay warm. Short of being in a space suit, you were going to suffer. He was doing okay. It was only a couple of degrees below zero. He was warm. He knew if he stopped moving he would probably be chattering, but he wasn't stopping now. The sooner he got over the pass, the sooner he could leave all this open country behind and get into the shelter of the trees again. They'd protect him.
For now, the snow was driving into his face. It didn't look like snow anymore. More like big globs of sodden tissue. It would sneak in under his rain gear. But his top half was warm. Other than that clammy feeling. That was just sweat. The gooseflesh on his thighs felt like it was frozen in place and his feet were chilled, but the top half could keep the bottom half of his body warm as long as he kept moving.
What if the bottom half of his body cooled the top half?
Was it as bad as that? No. No need to even think like that. Just had to get through this pass and leave all this behind. It wouldn't be snowing in the treeline. This was just one of those difficult bits you had to grit your teeth and get through. There was no shelter up here anyway, so he had no choice but to keep going. Once he was over, he'd set up his tarp by some trees or maybe a boulder. What did they call them again? Erratics. That's it. Sometimes you can find those this high up. Here and there. He could boil some water, make some coffee. He'd get this stupid raincoat off too. That was what was making his sweat feel so clammy.
The driving snow was now making him drift in its direction, but there was still a slight depression and some small cairns to mark the trail. He was managing to stay on it, but stopped to look back, just to make sure. Worst case, if he had to backtrack, he had to have landmarks, but he couldn't see a thing. There'd be no point backtracking now anyway. He must be closer to the next campground than the one he left this morning. Looking ahead again, he thought he was looking through glass, with snow sliding off it like greasy finger paint. Through it he gathered glimpses, an outline of a knoll. There was a slight irregularity on the top. Could be a cairn, marking the top of the pass. Head for that.
He tried to concentrate on the outline, focussing on its irregularity. It became larger: a mound of stones with something rising out of it. A sign. The heavy white sludge slid easily from it. Badger Pass. He'd made it.
Fear dissipated. It had grown much more than he thought. He was okay now. He just needed to get back to the tree line.
Looking down the pass to find the trail, he caught sight of a movement. A bear? Leaning forward, he scanned the area down the slope. He wished the snow would stop moving so he could see. For a moment, he seemed to be moving and the snow standing still. He shook his head. There was that outline again. Something coming up the pass, stumbling.
A lost hiker, stumbling under the weight of his pack, drifting away from the trail with the wind. He tried to keep the hiker in sight as he walked down the pass. If he was off the trail, as long he was going down, he'd be okay. The treeline was down there. He could always get back to where he'd come from by going up. He went as quickly as he could before nearly slipping, and cursing his backpack for throwing off his balance.
Finally he was where he thought he'd seen the hiker, but there were no tracks. Shouldn't be too hard to spot him up here in the rock now that the snow was turning back into rain. Maybe the tracks were a little further down, where the trail became steeper.
No tracks there either. He looked behind him to see if he was still on the trail.
Someone was running, clumsily, on the ridge to his right. That guy must be crazy. He needed help.
He dropped his pack. Too tired and sweaty to haul that back up. Landmarks? There was a huge boulder just down the trail. When he was back he'd set up his tarp there and brew some coffee.
He followed his tracks back up, slipping as he looked for access to the ridge. He couldn't see the hiker anymore, but knew he could find the part of the ridge where he'd seen him running. He'd have to climb a bit to reach it.
He felt unbearably hot after working his way to the top of the ridge. His chest no longer felt clammy, but steamy. Got to take this raincoat off. About to drop it on the ground, he thought better of it and managed to tie it around his waist.
Looking around him, he couldn't see any tracks. The other hiker was probably just following the ridge. Down. He was probably going down. No. He'd seen him coming up. Down to the treeline. Up to backtrack. Hold it. Was that for him or the hiker? Down. He had to go down. He needed shelter. He was shivering now. Clenching his teeth, he stiffened his body to quell the tremors. Not good.
Okay. Have to go down. Right or left? The hiker was on his left, so he should go left. No. NO! Same stupid mistake he made this morning. He had been looking backwards when he saw him. To the right. Definitely go to the right. Just follow the ridge, just keep plodding and you'll hit the backpack. Had to get his stuff and hunker down. That's what he had to do. That's what the animals do. See any other animals out here? Of course not. Haven't seen one all day. They're all in their shelters. They protect themselves. That's where he should be right now. In a shelter. Right by that rock.
Was that rock on this ridge? No. Have to go to the right now. Definitely to the right. It was steep. Just take those little steps. Toes down.
Down. Try not to slip again.
Up now. Getting close. Up to backtrack to the pack. Backtrack to the pack. Tough going. Just have to plod on.
Down. Must be back on the trail by now. Down, up, down. Figured that out. Tired. Just need to rest a bit by this rock.
Just rest against this rock. Raining now. No shivering. So warm. Breath still visible. Rain must be warm now.
Pack, just ahead, on the trail.
Good. Going to need that for later. The rock will shelter for now. Just need to burrow in and get some rest.
Chris Carleton |