Let me tell ya ‘bout Cold

Let me tell ya ‘bout Cold

Cold! You’re cold? Ya think this is cold? Let me tell ya ‘bout cold!

So you think you know cold; well you don’t come close. I’m gonna tell you the facts ‘bout cold. As one might think, there are several kinds or degrees of cold: there’s cold, there’s colder, and then there’s COLD. But there is a degree of cold that goes where no other cold has been. I have seen, felt and survived it, I want you to know. Survived them all at one time or another. So just hang in there and I’ll tell you all ya need to know.

Just what is cold?

I’ve been there when it’s cold. Let me describe cold for you. You might be marching in a review of the Corps of Cadets in downtown Houston on a November Saturday with the wind blowing through the canyons of old downtown Houston like a hurricane was around the next corner. The temp might be in the mid to high forty’s, maybe even as high as fifty or even sixty. You have been soaked completely through and through by the rain. Or just maybe you are in the middle of a hurricane in October that’s hitting the Florida panhandle and the temperature again is somewhere in the fifties or sixties. But with the wind blowing and your tent not providing the needed shelter from the elements that you desire and like in Houston, just maybe you are again soaking wet. Well yah, that’s cold.

But wait, let me tell ya ‘bout colder.

           OK, let’s say you are on a wilderness canoe trip in the Quetico Boundary Waters just north and east of Ely, Minnesota in early August. Your boots have been soakin’ wet for the entire six days you have been out with a full three days left prior to returning to civilization. You just had to turn back from a portage that you couldn’t find because the rain prevented you from seeing any further than your own hand held as far out as you can reach in front of your face. You have just set up camp again in the same spot as last night, this time in the rain. The bottom half of your sleeping bag is wet because your chums have picked a bad spot for the tent—drainage quickly became part of your sleeping terrain. You soon realize that the situation will not get better all night. The temp then drops into the fifties or even the forties but you can’t tell as no one in the group has a thermometer. You are intuitive enough to know that it has to be in the forties because you have never been this miserable in the fifties. Your feet are wet and you feel colder than you can ever remember before and all that’s left for the three remaining days is more wet clothes. Well, yah, that’s colder.

But just wait a minute; we’re not finished yet. Let me tell ya ‘bout COLD.

One Friday morning in February some years back while bivouacked on the drop zone just east of Fort Greely, Alaska with the temp on the bottom side of -85ºF or possibly even as low as -90ºF, I awoke just a little bit later than my usual. I knew this because the sun was shining through the gap in the tent flap and at that time of year the sun didn’t come out until around 10 AM. The previous night I had once again been out far past midnight, actually closer to 2 to 3 AM, observing and supervising (when it seemed to be required) on a support mission to assist the Air Force Weather Unit up on Donnelly Dome (see Fitz’s and His Spare Tire for complete details of that adventure). From where I lay on my cot, I could just barely see that all important sunlight (warmth) streaming through just the smallest crack in the tent door flap. Somebody hadn’t completely closed the flap; whichever of my tent mates who had last departed was surely the culprit—it didn’t matter much now. An open flap mixes the Herman Nelson provided heat with the outside cold, but not very well.

As I lay there on top of my sleeping bag, I realized that I had probably missed any chance at my routine—a quick run by the post shower point where there was a great (read warm) indoor latrine. That stop on my way to Battalion for the new day’s assignments was a luxury I always looked forward to. Boy, I was sure gonna miss that great (warm) indoor latrine.

Missing this opportunity would soon turn out to be more than moderately important this particular morning. I felt warm laying there on my bunk; all nice and cozy dressed in just my long johns and socks—we slept in as little as we could get away with. Even with the temp around -75ºF or -85ºF outside our canvas walls, with Herman blowing you could get away with very little sleepwear—Herman could make it downright hot inside.

As I lay there and thought more about missing that (warm) indoor latrine on the flight line; the idea was starting to take a fairly heavy toll on me. This had been my routine each morning over the last three weeks—taking this route allowed me to coordinate with the aviation operations guys on my way to visit with my Company Commander and the Battalion operations section to discuss mission requirements. I had to show my face just to insure they kept our operation in mind because we were not collocated with the rest of the battalion and this sometimes caused a problem—sort of an out-of-sight situation.

           As I lay there contemplating my situation, I mumbled to myself “Brrrrr!” I shivered just a little thinking of what awaited outside that tent flap. “It’s cooooold! I don’t wanna go to that latrine tent…but I gotta. I just can’t wait.” I knew it was now too late and that I had no choice; the natural laws of the morning had assumed command of my body. I pulled myself outta the rack and began to dress for the short hike I was about to take.

Reader, please realize: this wasn’t an elaborate restroom facility that I was headed toward. It was just a crude two-holer my platoon had put together—made out of plywood with plastic bags dangling down—and placed inside an Artic ten man tent—a canvas facility about twelve to fourteen feet in diameter, depending on the skill of the team erecting it. There’s no Sears and Roebuck catalog or corn cobs for us.

The facility was not anything like your Tishomingo, Mississippi or Snook, Texas outhouse that many of you might have experienced at one point in your life. No, as one might expect, we didn’t have the accompanying odor problem that routinely is associated with that rural southern type of facility. The reason for the lack of odoriferous content is because the aroma generally associated with outdoor facilities is astonishingly done-in by the extreme weather elements of the Alaskan winter fairly immediately. Just about everything freezes amazingly quick in these conditions. My experience reminds me that this phenomena starts to take place somewhere close to -30ºF.

Feeling sufficiently buck’d-up for my jaunt, I grabbed my towel—everybody kept a special towel draped off the left foot end of their cot for the explicit purpose of rubbing down the seat area of our favorite two-hole privy. This action created just the slightest friction, hopefully adding a degree or two of warmth to the seat area and prevented leaving precious particles of your rear end attached upon final departure. Armed and ready, I headed toward the tent door and what awaited me just outside it.

I threw back the tent flap, looked outside and again mumbled to myself: “Brrrrrrr...” I shivered a little more this time than last. “It’s cooooooold! I don’t wanna go to that latrine tent! But, I gotta go. I just can’t wait.” I stood there looking straight out for just the shortest time, staring through the twinkling frosted and sparkling air dreading the task ahead. Convincing myself that I could do it—as hard as it was—I started out directly toward my destination.

With every step I took the snow crunched under my feet reaffirming all the way that it wasn’t going to be a pleasure walk. As I trudged along and noticed the lack of footprints heading in my intended direction, the thought struck me, nobody had taken this route directly from my tent sense arriving. I was breaking trail most of the way. With every breath I took the tiny hairs in my nose crackled once more reaffirming the lack of warmth I was experiencing. With every exhale of breath the fog created a mini-cloud that hung in the air for what seemed like minutes after I moved on from the area. It wasn’t long before I arrived at the front flap of that dreaded crescent moon operation.

I stood there looking and contemplating the task I was about to undertake and again I mumbled, this time I think a bit louder than I had before—I’m sure now that it was quite a bit louder than before but there was no one around to hear or even care for that matter. “Br-r-r-r-r-r-r…” I shivered; I also know I shivered a lot more this time than last. “It’s co-o-o-o-o-old! I don’t wanna do this… But, I gotta go… I just can’t wait.”

I pulled back the door flap and looked inside. I stood gazing at that two-holer, both of its eyes staring back at me. Trying to not think about how cold it was gonna be, I looked around and the thought ran through my mind: “Well, at least there is no wind to speak of.” Yep there wasn’t any wind and that was a good thing. Looking around outside and then back in again at that two-holer, I once more mumbled, but this time I didn’t just mumble; I spoke it out loud. “Br-r-r-r-r-r-r…” And this time I shivered all over—definitely all over. “It’s co-o-o-o-o-old! I don’t wanna do this… But, I gotta go… I just can’t wait.

Filled now with a false bravado managed by very few I’m sure; I rallied what little courage I could summon—where it had come from to this day I do not know. I stepped inside that tent pulling the flap closed behind me and began to furiously rub down that plywood seat top with my towel. When I thought I had applied significantly enough pressure—actually I probably just got tired of rubbing—I turned around, lined myself up, dropped my pants, sat down on that warm plywood seat and started shivering—this time for sure. I shivered ALL OVER! But I was gonna make it. I had come his far and there was no turning back now. I had no other choice.

The temperature having warmed up considerably after sunrise, there I sat in something close to -85ºF with my field jacket and undershirt tucked up under my arms, my pants and long johns shrugged down around my bunny boots and ankles and my eyes closed. Not more than thirteen and a half seconds later—I wasn’t really counting, but I’m positive of the exact length of time—a gust of wind blew through our bivouac area forcing back the tent flap I had failed to secure properly fully covering me with fresh dusting of the previous night’s snow. Now brother, that’s COLD! Dam-m-m-n cold!