Thru Stories: That Time I Didn’t Go Hypothermic Because I Had Already Gone Hypothermic

 

Jack and I entering Baxter.  2003 was so long ago
everything was in Black and White. 

Note: while NHTM is for the most part a (hopefully) humorous blog, hypothermia is no joke.  Please avail yourself of the helpful links in this story to learn more about it.  I’ve also included some unhelpful links if you just want a laugh.

“Good judgement comes from experience.  And experience?  Well, that comes from bad judgement.”

There may be people who are good at learning from experience, but generally speaking that’s not true of me.  Hell, I’ve completed seven long hikes on six trails and I still haven’t figured out that I don’t particularly like walking.  But every once in a while — usually when I almost die — I am not The Boy Who Doesn’t Learn.

This story is one of those whiles.

In 2008 I was hiking the PCT and found myself in Washington State rather late in the Fall.  I'd like to say that this was due to a late start date or severe injury or at least the vague catchall phrase “circumstances beyond my control.”  But if I’m honest the real reasons would include the also-kind-of-vague but not as self-absolving “having way too much fun in California.”

Rough (but normal) conditions in Washington

In any case, Washington State was doing what Washington State does late in the Fall — dropping the temps, dropping cold rain, dropping the snowline.  And in the process, dropping my core temperature.  The last couple of weeks were a town-to-town slog, pushing big miles to get to the next resupply before EVERYTHING was soaking wet.  And constantly considering the fine line between uncomfortable and dangerous.

I was a couple of days North out of White Pass hiking solo on a cold and rainy day when I arrived at Chinook Pass.  And the thing about Chinook Pass is: there are very nice bathrooms there that would be excellent to sleep in.  And by this point in the hike, sleeping in a warm, dry bathroom was definitely an attractive option.  However, even though by this time I was walking to the rhythm of my teeth chattering, it seemed too early in the day to stop.  So on I pushed, into a wet, foggy day that was getting wetter and foggier as I hiked.

Chinook Pass, where I didn't sleep in a bathroom.

I was aiming for Government Meadow and Mike Ulrich Cabin.  Much like a bathroom, the cabin would provide shelter from the elements.  In addition it had a wood stove, and hopefully also had the hikers who had left Packwood the day before me.

But at a certain point it was getting dark, the temperature was dropping further, and the fog was so thick I could no longer guarantee that I could stay on trail and end up at Government Meadow.  More importantly, I was feeling the beginnings of the onset of hypothermia.  I was only a couple of miles away from a warm, dry cabin.  It was tempting to push on.  What to do?

Decision time.  Fortunately not a last known photo.

Foremost in my mind at that point was my poor decision making a few years earlier in 2003.  Some friends were finishing their AT Thru-hikes, and I joined them for the 100 Mile Wilderness and Katahdin.  This was probably my first bad decision.  Have you ever tried to get off the couch, brush the Cheez-Its off your chest, and keep up with Thru-hikers finishing a trail?  It seemed effortless for them; for me it seemed like something I had been sentenced to by a particularly cruel Judge.  Every part of me ached for every minute and by the end I had trench foot and a simmering distrust of my friends who said it would be AMAZING.

2003 was a particularly rainy year on the AT, and that Fall in Maine was no exception.  It was late on a cold, rainy day when I left East Branch Lean-To — where some of the crew I was hiking with were now safely tucked into their sleeping bags — and pushed on to meet Baltimore Jack at Cooper Brook Falls Lean-To.  Those hikers looked warm and dry at East Branch.  I wanted desperately to stay.  But I had told Jack I’d meet him, and I didn’t want him worrying about me (or worse — backtracking in the bad weather trying to find me).  So on I hiked, after one last jealous glance back at those done for the day.

Cooper Brook Lean-To in 2015.  Note the obligatory
mystery underwear hanging on the wall.

It was only about 8 miles to the shelter.  Doable, and I thought I was moving pretty fast in the cold & wet.  At a certain point, though, I stopped to get water and eat a snack.  I sat down, shivering.  I took my gloves off.  I continued to sit.  In the cold.  In the rain.  I lost feeling in my hands.  I stopped shivering.  Something in me snapped me out of the fog I had fallen into and told me I had to move.  I got up and started walking, but I didn’t put my gloves back on.  It was dark now, but I decided that getting my headlamp out of my pack would take too long.  This had the effect of slowing me down dramatically as it continued to rain, and eventually led to me blowing right past the blue blaze that marked the side trail to the shelter.

But only a hundred yards past it, as the trail went uphill to the left, that same thing that snapped me out of my previous stupor told me I had passed the shelter.  I worked my way backwards, straining in the dark to see the blue blaze.  I eventually found it, and made my way down to the shelter.

There was a lot of scary stuff happening in the last two paragraphs, but by this time I didn’t have the wherewithal to realize it.

Fortunately, Jack was at the shelter (which I realized afterwards wasn’t guaranteed).  And from this point on I have no memory of what happened, and have to rely on Jack’s telling of the tale.

He said that I stumbled into the shelter, dropped my pack, sat on the deck, and proceeded to do nothing.  Just sat there staring at nothing.  Jack asked me what I was doing and I mumbled, “just resting for a minute.”

Jack said that at that point he realized from my behavior and my condition that I was showing signs of being deep enough into hypothermia that he needed to spring into action.  He started ordering me around, starting with telling me to get out of my wet clothes.  Which I couldn’t do.  So he got me undressed and into my long underwear and then into my (fortunately) dry sleeping bag.  He boiled water, put it in a Nalgene, and had me place it in my armpit.  He fed me hot stew and then some warmed water.  And he kept me awake through all of that.

Eventually the grogginess lifted and I remember being in my sleeping bag with no idea how I got there.  Jack hovering over me, talking to me and looking at me with concern.  Gradually I regained full mental function.

Now that I think about it, my friends would probably dispute whether I ever have full mental function.  “You can’t regain something you’ve never had!”  But at least I was thinking relatively clearly again.  I believe that at the point he started treating me I was somewhere in the middle of HT II (moderate hypothermia) and spiraling downward.  Did I die?  That I’m writing this would suggest no.  On the other hand, there’s a fair amount of evidence that I’m such a stubborn person that maybe I did die and have been choosing to ignore that fact for the past 19 years.

But I’m pretty sure I’m alive.  And there’s little doubt in my mind that if Jack hadn’t been there — or if he didn’t know what to do — I wouldn’t be.  Instead of dying I got a harsh lesson about the limits of my expertise, and the urge to make sure I never put myself in that position again.

Then in 2008 in Washington State I went right ahead and put myself in that position again.

But not exactly.

This time, I was aware of what was happening.  I had been monitoring my hand dexterity all day.  I knew the signs and symptoms to look for — I was on top of “the umbles.”  And as I did mental checks on my condition my goal was to (if necessary) catch hypothermia in the mild stage when I could self-treat and arrest the progression.  In other words, do all of the things Jack had done for me back in ’03 in Maine when I could no longer help myself.

So did I hike on towards Government Meadow?

No.

Government Meadow from Ulrich Cabin.

My headlamp was bouncing off the thick fog and I couldn’t see a thing.  In fact, the next day I found out I had passed a tent about five feet off the trail without seeing it.  I was shivering, and my hand dexterity had degraded to the point that if I waited to set my tent up much longer I didn’t think I’d be able to.  A warm, dry cabin was definitely a better place to end up, but I suspected that I might not end up there.  So while I still had my wits about me I set up my tent, stripped out of my wets, got into my dry long underwear, and slid into my sleeping bag.  I cooked a hot meal in my vestibule — not ideal, but I wasn’t going to do it in the cold rain — and then warmed up some water to drink.  At no time did I fall into the deep mental fog that affected me in 2003, but I had felt a bit addled and it took me a while to warm up.  I believe stopping when I did was the smart move.

Tex, Karen, and I drying out at Ulrich Cabin

The next day I did my shortest day on the trail — about three miles to Ulrich Cabin.  I was joined by Tex and Karen, whose tent I had passed in the fog.  We decided to bag further hiking for the day, chop some wood, and spend the day recovering by the wood stove and drying our gear and clothing.  It was a good day, and it was a smart move.

And when I made it to Snoqualmie Pass 46 miles later, I got a room at The Summit Inn and sat in their hot tub for two hours.  Which might have been the smartest move of all.

Heading to Snoqualmie.  Post-crisis but pre-hot tub.

(for another story about what happened in my tent that night in 2008, click HERE)


Thanks to Andi Lowry for the inspiration to get off my metaphorical butt and write this story down (I was on my actual butt when I wrote it).

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Embrace The Brutality: A Continental Divide Trail Adventure

Things Hikers Sometimes Do, Chapter One: Seam Sealing A Tent

If you’ve never bought a tent, or you’re the sort of person smart enough to only buy tents that are factory seam sealed, you may be unaware of how the process works.  The following describes my experience, with an added bonus product review.  Enjoy!

Retrieved from the trash for this photo.

I realized that I am car camping and going to festivals often enough that having a large heavy tent that I don’t really care about makes sense.  If you’ve ever bought a large cheap tent, you’ve probably discovered that they usually aren’t seam sealed.  Which means that regardless of how waterproof the fabric is, sheltering inside one in a storm is much like expecting to stay dry from the rain while inside an enormous spaghetti colander.  And no, that doesn’t make any sense.  Selling a tent that won’t keep the rain out seems willfully obtuse, like selling a car that doesn’t have tires.  I mean, I only expect two things of a tent: keep me dry, and don’t spontaneously combust while I’m sleeping inside it.  That the manufacturers seemingly don’t care about the first thing kind of makes me question whether they care about the second.

Anyway, what this means is that if you don’t want your large cheap tent to be like Gene Hackman’s house in Unforgiven, you’re going to have to seam seal it.  So off I went to the store, and rather than buy Seam Grip (which I know works), I picked up Gear Aid’s Seam Sure Water Based Seam Sealer.  Why?  Well, it was a dollar cheaper, and I also liked that because it was water based I

1. wouldn’t smell like I’d been building model airplanes all day and
2. wouldn’t once again set myself on fire while having a smoke immediately after seam sealing.

 Now, the thing about seam sealing is that I don’t like doing it, but it’s a relatively minor and short annoyance, much like Lil’ Kim or a prostate exam.  Still, if I can find a product that makes the task easier, I’ll take it.

 Gear Aid’s Seam Sure Water Based Seam Sealer is not that product.

In fact, I can say without reservation that this product is the worst hiking or camping product I have ever bought.  Ever.  It is far too watery and has a bottle applicator that absolutely doesn’t work if what you’re trying to do is get the product on the seams and not anywhere else.  After attempting to coat part of one seam there was sealer everywhere.  The floor.  The mesh.  The back of my neck.

If you want to know what using this product is like, call a friend and have them come over.  Then mail me $6.99.  Then fill a glass with Coke and have your friend stand above that glass with head pointed downward and mouth open.  Now try to throw Coke upwards into his mouth.  Here’s what will happen: very little of the liquid will end up where you want it, everyone will be sticky and disappointed, and someone who doesn’t deserve it will have $6.99 of your money.  Same with Gear Aid’s Seam Sure Water Based Seam Sealer.

The design of this product runs so counter to its stated purpose that I initially thought that something extraordinary with my particular bottle was to blame.  Perhaps some factory worker pranked me by filling it with deer ejaculate?  Dunno.  But on the whole I think it’s just more likely that the product is crap.

If you’re wondering if Gear Aid’s Seam Sure Water Based Seam Sealer actually works, I don’t know.  Maybe it’s incredibly waterproof and you’re drier than Churchill’s martinis.  Maybe it doesn’t work at all, and your tent doubles as a wading pool.  Or maybe it’s somewhere in the middle, like coating the seams with peanut butter.  You probably stay relatively dry, but there are mice absolutely everywhere.  I’ll never know, because I was so annoyed with it that rather than take it back for a refund I threw it in the trash, and then, worried that it might infect other things in my house that actually work, took that trash out to the curb.

Then off to the store to buy some Seam Grip, which unlike Seam Sure comes not just with the bottle applicator but includes a small brush.  Also: it’s the right gel-like consistency.  Also: the mere thought of it doesn’t make me angry.

Seam sealing is tedious.  And time consuming.  You’re essentially painting the seams while getting high on seam sealer fumes.  And because you’re high on seam sealer fumes, you will miss the one seam that actually needs to be sealed.  Which will invariably end up being directly above your head when you’re sleeping.  Which you’ll discover a month from now when it’s pouring rain.

But back in the here and now your seam sealing technique will change dramatically from the beginning of the process to the end.  At the beginning, you’re being pretty painstaking.  Carefully painting the seam, not using too much, wiping up that bit that spilled on the tent floor.  But the further into the seam sealing you get, it becomes progressively more important to be finished than neat.  Or even dry. You’re slapping gobs of that stuff all over the place.  You’re the Jackson Pollock of waterproofing.  The paper towels you were using to clean up earlier when you cared are now stuck to your lower back and shoulder.  Which means two things: you are most likely going to run out of seam sealer before you finish the job, and you are almost certainly going to get the tube of seam sealer stuck to your hand.

So it’s off to the store for another tube of Seam Grip, driving carefully so as not to get the "tube stuck to it" hand attached permanently to the steering wheel.  Then back to the yard and inside the tent, where, although it’s counterintuitive, you really should have started with the seams around the door.  Because now you are so ready for the whole thing to be over that you are pretty much done with the small brush, which in any case is currently stuck to the back of your leg.  You’re mainlining it now, going directly from tube to seam.  And if you’re not careful (and trust me, you’re not careful) there is an excellent chance that you are going to seam seal the door zipper shut, and possibly be forced to live inside the tent forever.

Which is not to say that you’re too stupid to figure out how to escape from the tent.   But at the very least we definitely know you’re not smart enough to buy a tent that is factory sealed.

Freedom regained with only minor damage to tent and ego, it’s into the house to wash up and pry off all of the stuff that has been stuck to your body for the past couple of hours.  The seam sealer will resist all attempts to “please for the love of god just get off of my hands,” and shortly thereafter, while typing up a piece about seam sealing, your left ring finger will get stuck to one of the keyssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

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