This article was written on assignement for Blue Ridge Outdoors in 2001.
Picture this. It’s an early December Saturday. The grass is long dead, the leaves have blown into the neighbor’s yard (finally, it was getting embarrassing), and the car is perfectly clean underneath all that road scum. Your significant other was up early, stoked a sweet fire, poured you a piping hot cup of java, and has pre-warmed your favorite spot on the couch. Your childhood blanket is waiting.
You probably won’t leave the house this weekend; badgering is the only thing that’s going to get you to change your underwear. You’ve traded your bike saddle for a recline-o-matic. It’s a regular ol’ Saturday in December. The only thing that will be different next weekend is that the neighbor’s entire house will be buried under your leaves. It doesn’t get any better than that.
So there you lay anticipating a food induced snooze-a-thon while the wind-chill is dipping into single digits outside. You reach toward the coffee table and grab your favorite outdoor publication (BRO, of course) and frantically flip to the article by your favorite writer (that would be me, of course). You’re positive that I’m going to coddle, and plead with you to remain horizontal, warm, cared-for. And that’s when it hits you.
“I think you should go camping.”
“Yes, I do. And, I think you should do it next Saturday.”
Ouch. My guess is that three things just happened. Your butt-cheeks quivered uncontrollably; the little-piggies huddled up underneath that blankey; and you experienced either shrinkage (if so equipped), or nippling (my sister-in-law affectionately calls this marvel of physiology, “smuggling peas”).
Now that I’ve warmed you to the idea, I’m going to say it again.
“I think you should go camping. But I think you should put all your stuff in a pack and carry it a couple of miles into the woods. And, I think you should do it for at least two nights. And while you’re at it, convince the-one-you-love to go along.” There. I said it.
Just don’t tell your mother what you’re up to; she will freak out. My mom can watch me stuff a thousand dollars of the warmest gear on the planet into my pack, and it doesn’t make one bit of difference. All she sees is a homeless person in a cardboard box - no food, a squatter’s shanty, frozen to a metal grate. When planning this trip, do whatever it takes to mislead your mom. Its better to lie to her than have her laying awake obsessing about you being a popsicle at the bottom of some cliff that they are about to name after you.
I’ve learned to use the after-the-fact, past tense with my mom. “Mom, I did the prettiest vault over the handlebars of my mountain bike yesterday. Mom, I was backpacking last weekend when the big ice storm hit. Mom, when I was twenty I climbed….” See my technique? You have my permission to lie to your mom, too. In fact I encourage it.
You’re probably thinking that it’s going to be quite chilly. I’m not sure how to mislead you here so I will concede: “Yes, it’s going to be a little bit nippy.” 
But if you’re well prepared (see Winter Camping Tips), you will be cold in a deceptively warm sort of way. And when the warmth comes; when your belly is full of noodles, you’ve polished of that final drop of hot cocoa and you’re cloaked in down - when you’ve expelled every last cubic inch of frostiness from your sleeping bag- you will be in heaven.
It will be pitch dark outside at 7′oclock and you’ll remember the last time went to sleep this early was in first grade. While you wait for the sandman - who being spiteful you won’t show until midnight - you get the bright idea to try to start something with your partner (despite the fact you both look like dorks in knit hats). You figure there’s nothing else to do. My guess, if it’s as cold as I think it’s going to be, neither of you are gonna get any.
Yeah, you’ll think you can pull it off - you’re both real champs at home. But you’ don’t realize how much is working against you out there. The most frustrated I’ve ever been was when I was trying to snuggle up to my partner in a frigid winter tent. We always had two big problems. One, I was toasty in my bag, and two, she was toasty in hers. In between was a layer of air that would squash the enthusiasm of even the most determined hormones. When one of us did muster the courage to stick an arm into the frozen ether, there was no chance of it, or anything, invading the other’s warm airspace - no matter how friendly that airspace was at home. Declothing was met with the same passion as going outside to pee. My guess is that, if your lucky, you might manage to wiggle your cocoons close enough to rub noses.
Just lay there, count some sheep, and hope it warms up in the morning.
Even if you can’t find a snuggle partner, go anyway. Invite one of your backpacking buds or gals. Bring the person you love to talk to – the one who will keep you up laughing. If you have never been camping in the winter, it will be unlike any you have ever done before. Your favorite backcountry spot, the one you know like the back of your hand, will feel like virgin forest. You will come back with a newfound confidence that will follow you on every backcountry trip for the rest of your life. Once you have mastered camping in the winter you’ll be able to backpack just about anywhere, anytime, in any conditions. More importantly, you will have the sense to know what you can handle and what you can’t.
Nothing, no amount of money or special gear, can give you the return that experience does.
Normally in the winter you would have the backcountry all to yourself, but I fear that after the publication of this article the place will be swarming with intrepid BRO readers. But when you do find a BRO-free spot, you will be rewarded with solitude, and treated to sights, sounds, and smells like those of no other season. It will be an eclectic treat that intensifies your senses and challenges your three-season abilities. Laying there listening to bare trees cutting the wind while your breath freezes to the tent walls, wondering how much it has snowed outside, is winter magic. To those with the right attitude it is bliss.
It’s not going to be, or supposed to be, easy. That’s why your mom won’t understand why you’re going out there, and that’s why mine (“You know I love you to death, mom”) will never truly understand me. If you’re a regular BRO reader, I bet your mom doesn’t understand a lot of the things you do either. And unless you flee the couch-of-self-indulgence and hit the backcountry this winter, you’ll never truly understand what being in the backcountry is all about.
Let me know if you get some.
Tags: backpacking, mothers, sex, sleeping bags, winter camping
