I’m not afraid of much. I cannot truthfully say that I enjoy things like spiders or extreme heights, but my dislike of these kinds of things is not debilitating. With this said, I think the concept of fear is rather fluid, and with this in mind, I’m gonna confess something: I have a very fear-like relationship with water.

It’s not fear, though. That’s not the right word. I’d say that it’s more of a significant distaste for water, but believe me when I tell you that this strong dislike is well placed and is the result of many good reasons —  reasons that are events. These events will be laid out and thoroughly described in three separate parts; a trilogy of disaster all of which revolve around water of some kind. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love drinking the stuff, and I have had many good experiences on and around water. I’m also rather fond of swimming and hot showers. I suppose that this is simply the first installment in the saga that explains my caution surrounding the ubiquitous liquid, and the reason behind why I just don’t like being wet. This, the first of the three stories, is the result of my prolonged involvement in Boy Scouts, as nearly all of my stories are. See, when I joined my first troop at the tender age of 10, I lived in Bellevue, Nebraska, and in the winter, Nebraska is cold.

Now the first thing a new scout learns when preparing for cold weather camping is to dress in layers. The second thing is to stay dry, a lesson taught to me by an instructor that decided to drench me on my second meeting ever. I remember avoiding him for the next year.

By late October of 2009, I had more than six months under my belt and felt pretty cool. I had accumulated all the gear I needed for the upcoming fall camporee and was determined to beat the brisk 15-degree weather. I made sure to do everything right. I had no less than five layers for the day, a down sleeping bag and sweats for the night, and was armed with my personal stash of instant hot cocoa. I was ready for anything – except what happened.

Now every camping guru knows that you keep your tent flaps open in all seasons to release condensation. Despite what I thought, I was no camping guru at that time. I thought that it would be much warmer if I sealed every flap and zipper. My good buddy Ryan, with whom I was sharing my tent, agreed. After all, it makes sense that sealing the tent would seal in the heat. With this flawed logic, an empty bladder, and a full stomach, we soundly went to sleep. The next morning, however, was not pleasant in the slightest. We woke up to a light snowfall, which normally would be nice, but this time it was inside the tent. Our sleeping bags were soaked and our egos bruised as we had to dry out everything next to the fire for the majority of that day.

That evening, everything was finally dry, and we were very ready for dinner. Ryan and I were on the roster to cook, so we happily did so, despite our lack of proper ingredients. This dinner shortage was no big problem, as we simply made pancakes with some extra mix from breakfast. Unfortunately, pancakes are messy and especially so when camping. Knowing this, the two guys on the cleanup crew conveniently forgot to wash the dishes, so Ryan and I were stuck with the job. We again found ourselves getting our hands and occasionally our clothes wetter and wetter in dropping temperatures.

When the dishes were finally done and everything put away, we were both freezing and decided to call it an early night. With freshly dried gear and just an ounce smarter than the night before, we hunkered down in our warm bags, this time with the flaps open. That night, I learned that open flaps plus a single digit wind chill, while helpful in decreasing condensation, created a slight breeze throughout the small tent. Now being the tenderfoot genius that I was, I had packed a down sleeping bag with virtually no substantial outer layer. The wind passed right through the bag and left me freezing in my underwear. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I took my first measure against the cold, which was to break out my sweat suit and hat. Looking back on it this was the right move, but it still left me shivering. An hour passed and I was drifting in and out of sleep, waking often because of the chill. I got tired of this quickly, so my next move was to curl up in a ball. Again, an okay move. If I was in that situation today, I might try wrapping my bag in a tarp or raingear before I resorted to the fetal position, but mostly a pretty safe move. This kept me warm long enough to get a few hours of shuteye, but then around 2 am, I again awoke shivering. At that point, I was fed up, and made my third move against the perpetual icy onslaught. It was the wrong move. That decision would make the entire night a miserable, sleepless nightmare; I began to breathe inside my bag.

That night I was cold enough and desperate enough to resort to the instant gratification of breathing into my bag. I was able to warm my hands and some of my legs within the first couple of minutes but not before I pumped as much moisture ridden air into the bag as my little lungs could manage. I soon found myself warm enough to drift off, but the next morning, I was looking back fondly on the snowy tent of the previous wake-up. Throughout the night, I had shaken myself awake every twenty minutes, each time exhaling a few breaths of hot air into my sleeping bag. By the time it was late enough to stay awake I was breathing almost exclusively in my bag just to keep myself thaw. I had frost and dew inside the bag. I was clammy and cold, and utterly miserable.

At 5:30 am, I got up and dried off, losing any hope of more sleep. I put fresh clothes on and ate a sausage link, and unsurprisingly I immediately began warming up. The weekend, however, was completely ruined for me, and I was the first boy ready to go home.

The first thing I did after I got home was to order a new down sleeping bag rated for -15 degrees with a gore-tex shell and I promised myself I’d never breathe in my bag again. To my credit, I didn’t.

But this was only the first major experience of many that have led to my distaste for dampness. The second came just three years later and involved a tree, a canoe, and a rather large amount of panic.

-Nickel

Part 2

Part 3