The morning of January 1, 2010 was miserable and windy, a nipple perking -33, particularly cold even for Red Deer, Alberta. I awoke around 8am to the bones of my home creaking in the ferocious gusts outside and shuddered at the prospect of spending this very night in a tent with no source of heat. By the time I packed up and left town it was 12:30pm. I had a hell of a time keeping my vehicle between the lines for the force of the wind on my oversize steel rectangle of a minivan, a cruel joke played upon me by the "engineers" at Ford; it is the exact opposite of aerodynamic. Fresh vehicles littered the ditches on both sides on the number 2 with snow piled to the handles on 3 sides, a common sight in winter, but somewhat unnerving when you are on your way to a campsite to spend the night. I had expected (and admittedly hoped) that my brother Chad would have already called to cancel the trip but alas I found myself careening down the highway barely in control on my way to a date with the hideous bitch goddess that is the Albertan winter. In a way I was proud of myself for having the courage to camp in January regardless of the temperature or conditions, but I will admit I felt a little trepidation as I was basically relinquishing control of my life to a simple toss of the dice. If my gear failed to keep me warm in the middle of the night it was not out of the realm of possibilities that I could become hypothermic or be severely bitten by frost. Making matters worse our campsite was situated out of cell phone reception and a good walk through deep snow in the woods from our vehicles. In any case this was my way of saying "fuck you" to the red headed step child of the 4 seasons that I have grown to dislike more and more as I age.

Much to my surprise, and in spite of my glib at her, the white witch swooned me tenderly to her bosom and opened a warm winter weather window in the form of a prominent Chinook arch that materialized just as I arrived at the foothills. The onboard thermometer read a balmy -12 as I pulled up to my friends vehicles that had arrived an hour or so before me. As I shouldered my 85L keg sized pack filled to the brim with clothing and tied the 2 garbage bags to my waist containing a sleeping mat, lunch kit and other items to bulky for the pack I took one last look at the minivan and shook my head at the thought of not seeing it again until 24 hours later. It was about a 1.5-2km trudge from the van to the campsite in 8-10 inches of the most awful crystalline snow I have ever encountered. Even with the use of my snowshoes I was still left sinking like an ant in a sugar bowl. As I laboriously shuffled up and down gentle rolls and around blind corners I remembered Brent telling me that last winter he and Graham had found large cat tracks about the size of a man's palm and assumed they were that of a cougar. They had followed the tracks for a ways up along the river until they strangely disappeared, like Celine Dion's horrendus French accent in song. This memory made me grateful for my new large backpack my mother in law gifted me at Christmas which extended up from my shoulders making me appear from behind at least an even 7 feet tall which would be discouraging to a cougar and would also protect me from a typical ambush from behind neck bite that the cats are infamous for. These thoughts were just casual as I don't feel apprehensions about fighting off a cougar like I do a Grizzly bear. I know I would at least have a chance against an animal in my weight class.

By the time I reached camp I was sweating like Roger Ebert as I was layered for the hell freezing cold raging on the prairies. Our adopted joke motto "you sweat you die" actually started to make sense as I became stationary in my wet clothes which froze quickly. The fair weather fortune allowed me a large margin of error which, as usual, I would capitalize unknowingly on. We setup camp, which was much more challenging than in the summer. Stiff tent material had to be coaxed into its anchors and to its full height. Placed atop the snow but separated by 3 layers of blue tarp it seemed like a satisfactory arrangement. My brother Chad had graciously retrieved a rental -30 mummy sleeping bag for me from MEC Calgary which I unrolled and tossed carelessly onto my inch thick inflatable sleeping mat inside. In hindsight it would have been a marvelously intelligent idea to have inspected the inner workings of the sleeping bag and considered more carefully just how I expected to keep myself warm battling the cold alone for sleep in the terrible blue octagon of a summer tent.

Not surprisingly the cold makes survival in the wilderness much more tedious and annoying (the two poops I took reached ordeal status when my multi layered clothing refused to cooperate). My 2 water bottles froze within the first few hours and the square chunks of deep dish pizza I brought could have been mistaken for scrap pieces of 2"x4". Later that evening, shortly after we had all cooked our soup and or hotdogs, I found myself sitting by the fire with my brother Chad, Brent + his girlfriend Rebecca , Graham + his girlfriend Katrina and their roommate Charles. They were all enjoying some fine cannabis smoke and I some harmless hot chocolate. Curiosity got the better of me as it sounded and looked like they were all having a gay time. My 3 previous experiences with the drug were completely fucking awful but that was years ago so I figured what the hell I would give it another shot. I took in a searing lungful every time the pipe made its way past me around the circle, and, just like the cabbage rolls at Christmas dinner I would over indulge and have more than a few too many. Being a novice smoker I was miffed when I felt no ill effects after about 20 minutes or approximately 5 turns on the evil poison dispenser. As more participants began refusing the reefer I took advantage and began doubling and even tripling up my intake of the giggle smoke until the pipe was extinguished for good and no more was offered. Shortly thereafter, in mid conversation, the oddest thing occurred while I was in mid sentence. My voice sounded echoed to me like, as if in a cave, but to my astonishment I realized the cave was actually my own skull which caused me to trail off in a most peculiar way as I pondered the complexity of the internal structure of my cranium in wonderment. This did not go unnoticed by my compadres but since I was still able to maintain composure somewhat, and because they were all three sheets to the wind I guess they didn't think much of it.

All of a sudden I became torturously uncomfortable. I had been sitting on a log by the fire but it felt as though I was exerting every bit of energy I had just to remain that way. I retired to the earth, accidentally exposing my lower back skin to the snow but not figuring it out for what must have been at least 10-15 minutes making a sizable dent in my core temperature. No longer contributing any meaningful conversation and, realizing that as the eldest of the group, I probably appeared foolish in the extreme I decided I better make my way to bed. Adhering strictly to my nighttime routine I remember having to force out a piss so hard that I felt like I was going to shit my pants but nothing would come. Finally a weak little spurt materialized, inches from the entrance of my tent. The effort of urinating was so taxing that I could only think of one thing and that was lying down immediately. I fumbled with the tent zipper and collapsed partially into the frozen fabric tomb and onto my crumpled sleeping bag like a Pinocchio being puppeteered by retarded drunken Jipedo. In between waves of mind-blowing nausea and dizziness my body felt very hot but I realized that it was becoming very cold. The thought of moving my head was paralyzing as I was sure I would vomit. I lay noncommittally that way, 50% of me in the tent, the rest in the snow for what felt like an eternity until I realized I was shivering and self preservation finally kicked in allowing me to disrobe and insert myself into the small orifice at the top of the tightly zippered mummy sleeping bag, penetrating only as far as my neck. The wait to get warm was more frustrating than listening to George Bush try to finish a sentence. My precious hard won heat was being leached away from my bundled body faster than it was being produced leaving me feeling like an elderly mans bank account while his 23 year old bikini model wife is at Dior with his debit card. Finally I realized that if I was going to survive the night I would have to find a way to tip the warmth scale in my favor and stop the heat transfer. In my handicapped condition the only solution I could come up with was to retrieve the two extra foamy's I had brought for an emergency such as this but try as I might I could not remember where the fuck I had put them. Suddenly I heard voices. The other guys, having just crawled into bed were calling around asking if everyone was warm. When no one asked me, assuming I was asleep I pathetically pleaded for someone to bring me the foamy's. When I could not tell the voices where they were located I thought I was fucked. Suddenly Chad unzipped my frozen cocoon and tossed me a paper thin silver life preserver. Privately my thoughts were "what the fuck is this going to do" but I was grateful for any assistance at this point. I placed the wafer thin shield between my bag and my foamy, lay down and tried once more to get comfortable. Although so slow it was barely noticeable the mat proved to be the equilibrant I desperately needed, but it only reached as far as my knees so my feet would not warm up. To make matters worse the bag turned out to be a 6'6" extra long model so it was quite cavernous at the end. I tried to fill this cavity with my clothes for the next morning which helped somewhat. Chad had gifted me half a dozen hand warmers for Christmas which I set off whenever I awoke through the night. My body's revenge for the substance abuse was waking me every couple hours to pee. I felt as if I was retaining water like the Hoover dam as I incompletely emerged from my lair into the eerie glow of a full moon multiple times to let fly, hunched over like a leaking elephant man in the opening of my tent.

The fifth and final time I awoke to stabbing bladder pains a faint hint of sunlight was beginning to illuminate the frozen forest surrounding me. In my boxer shorts, hoodie and winter boots I emerged clumsily from the tent looking all messy and haggard like woman crotch in an 80's porn. As I clambered out and into the new day I spotted the foamy's about 4 feet away from my god damnded tent. What a piss off. I peed yet again, noting that the entrance to my tent looked more like a sign post in a dog off leash area. I then decided to throw some logs on the fire for when I would get up a few hours later. Unsure if there were any coals remaining I started screwing around with kindling, one thing lead to another, and I soon found myself shivering and committed to seeing flame in order to warm up before trying to climb back into my black mummy bag. I managed to make enough noise to rouse Graham in the process and felt too guilty to go back to sleep. I had a good laugh as he told me how his night was anything but silky smooth because his Golden Retriever Calvin, true to his breed, couldn't go one night without running away or shitting on something important. This time that something happened to be Graham's sleeping bag. Graham laments were it not for the ball shriveling cold of that night he would have thrown the bag and the dog out but instead was forced to endure the fecal stench.

As we cooked breakfast at around 10am 2 planes buzzed us at no more than 50ft, probably investigating the shaft of smoke dancing into the sky. When they saw us loafing around the fire they must have wondered what kind of rat bastard psychotics would be camping at this time of the year. Much later in the day, after I dismantled my abode I was amazed but not surprised to see that underneath where I had slept I had melted the snow into a inch thick layer of ice through 2 layers of blue tarp, the tent, an inch thick inflating sleeping mat and a -30 mummy bag. No wonder I could not get warm. The thieving ground had been sucking the life from me. I reflected on the night before and remembered that I felt as if I was being finished by Shang Tsung, but instead of an evil sorcerer it was the ground who was saying "your soul is mine". Maybe it was the cheeba but I could hear the river near by whispering "fatality". But, I bested the son of a bitch and survived to not only tell the tale but to also pull more wild boners. I can't help but feel over confident now and ready for my Mount Columbia climb. After taking stock of how I adapted to the cold I feel that other than being cursed with a thin beard I am lucky enough to have been blessed with more than adequate physical capabilities and feel equipped to deal with any challenge the winter wilderness faces me with.

On the trudge out to the cars I pondered the shittiness of winter and realized that I hardly recognize this place. Less than 3 months ago I was here basking comfortably in the suns erotic rays, clad only by shorts and surrounded by greenery, now it's awfully cold and everything is whitewashed in death. I yearn for summer warmth like a nun for a good hard pumping. Only 6 more months to go.