Too Close to Hypothermia
I've nearly died many times, but twice I was very close to death from hypothermia. Both are incredibly clear in my memory and nearly haunt me to this day, but they are also stark reminders whenever I start getting cold.
Camp Rich and Dicey Mill Pond
The first time was at Camp Rich in the southern White Mountains. We had hiked up the long trail next to Dicey Mill Pond.
Camp Rich: The Fire Finally Wins
We just couldn't get the fire going. We kept desperately searching for more wood because we both knew that if we didn't get a real fire started, we were in serious trouble. Looking back now, I know we were both hypothermic, but I was especially bad. My hands were numb and almost useless, I was confused, and perhaps the scariest part was that I simply didn't care anymore. I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.
Dan dragged me back outside, shook me, and kept telling me that if we didn't get a fire going we were both going to die. Eventually he got the fire established while I crawled into my sleeping bag ready to drift off forever. A little while later he woke me up and told me there was hot food and warm drinks. Little by little I thawed out and realized how close I had come to dying. That was one of my nine lives gone forever.
Camp Shehadi: Nine Lives Times Two
Unfortunately, we didn't learn a bit from that first experience. We kept hiking every weekend that winter using the same cotton clothing, poor sleeping bags, and bad habits. Looking back, we were incredibly lucky to survive that season.
Only a couple of weeks later we found ourselves at Camp Shehadi, another small lean-to in the southern White Mountains after hiking Mount Paugus and Mount Passaconaway, an area we loved because it was only about a two-hour drive from home. Once again everything was soaked, we couldn't get a fire going, and once again I became severely hypothermic.
As soon as we reached the shelter I climbed into my sleeping bag and simply would not come back out. I had helped at first, but I became completely useless. I wanted only to sleep. The frightening part was that the sleeping bag didn't warm me up. I simply stayed cold and slowly got colder.
I remember thinking, this is it. Oddly enough, I wasn't afraid. I felt completely at peace, believing that if my life ended while doing something I loved, then so be it.
Fortunately, Dan never gave up. He spent hours working on the fire while I lay there doing almost nothing. Somehow, through his determination and a tremendous amount of luck, we survived. That winter cost me another one of my nine lives.
When we got home we vowed never to let it happen again. We replaced our cotton clothing with wool and synthetic layers, upgraded our sleeping bags, and after reading Don't Die on the Mountain, completely changed the way we prepared for winter hiking. Those two weekends changed the rest of my outdoor life forever.