Deep Cold
This past weekend, a polar vortex event brought Arctic air to Maine, causing temperatures to plummet. The National Weather Service predicted that wind chills in the Moosehead Lake region could go down to 40 below zero Fahrenheit. Weather like this is what I think of as rapidly lethal cold.
In temperatures this low, the potential consequences of seemingly minor mishaps increase greatly. Suppose that, on a warm summer evening, I tripped outdoors and injured my leg. Though it would be painful, I could slowly crawl back to my cabin, turn on my Internet, and call for help. But in subzero weather, I might succumb to hypothermia before making it back indoors.
I try to minimize the risk posed by extreme cold through careful planning. On Friday, the day before the predicted deep freeze, I brought in plenty of wood. I filled the rack by my woodstove to its maximum capacity and stashed a few additional pieces on the floor. I pumped and hauled enough water to fill all my storage containers. These preparations guaranteed access to the top three survival essentials – shelter, fire, and water – right in my cabin, with no need to go outside.
I ran my mini-generator to charge my laptop, my phone, the deep cycle battery that powers the satellite dish that connects me to the Internet, and my satellite-based emergency tracking/messaging device. I carry the latter device in my jacket pocket even on short forays out of my cabin. Of course, I’m aware that, if I ever need to activate the SOS button that calls first responders, it will take several hours for them to reach me – meaning I will be responsible for my survival in the interim.
After completing my preparations, I settled into my cabin, a cocoon of warmth and light in the midst of the wintry forest. I always enjoy sitting by my fire. But the pleasure is heightened in brutal cold, when I know that just a few feet away – on the other side of my cabin wall – the temperature is truly frigid, as much as a hundred degrees colder.
In my experience, on clear, cold mornings, the lowest temperature of the day often happens shortly after the sun comes up. On Saturday, about half an hour after sunrise, my porch thermometer dipped to minus 14 Fahrenheit.
Fourteen below zero is nowhere near a record for me. One morning in January 2009, my thermometer registered minus 38. However, on that morning, the wind was still. On Saturday, I decided to leave the shelter of my porch and walk down the short path to my shore. When I stepped out from the shelter of the trees, I was assaulted by an icy blast. According to ventusky.com, the wind was blowing at 16 miles per hour, gusting up to 33, yielding a wind chill of minus 38.
The frozen white surface of the lake was veiled with a mist of blowing snow. Pale golden clouds glowed above the flank of the mountain to the east. To me, the morning was exquisite, in an austere, harsh way. My world was defined by primal, inorganic elements – snow, ice, wind, light – that were stunningly beautiful, yet utterly indifferent to my needs as a warm-blooded animal. I soon scurried back into my snug den.
If you’d like to join me vicariously on my Saturday morning walk, here’s a brief video I recorded:
I spent much of the day by my fire, but ventured out again after dark. I knew that chilly nights yield dazzling stargazing, and the wind had abated a bit. On my shore, a waxing half-moon was sinking toward the western horizon, casting a silvery path across the white desert of the lake. The Big Dipper hung above my cabin, a shining question mark in the black sky. I felt amply rewarded for braving the cold.
What do you like best about cold winter days? I invite you to share your thoughts as a comment!
And for anyone who may be interested in the logistics of how I keep my fire going, here’s a video I just posted on YouTube: