Positive Pessimism

Kitchen night life at twenty below.

Winter camping. It’s cold, but at least it’s dark. The wind’s blowing, but at least it’s snowing. Everything’s harder, but at least we have numb hands to do it with.

This is positive pessimism. It has gotten climbers through the mighty slog up Aconcagua. It has buoyed spirits on the 15^th tent-bound day in Patagonia. And it is a potent remedy against winter nights in the backcountry. That and 11 hours of sleep in a warm sleeping bag, plus as much butter, bacon, Spam, gravy and biscuits as a human digestive tract can handle.

Last week ten friends and I participated in Outward Bound’s Rocky Mountain Region Winter Skills Training. On Friday morning, after a day of classroom “sit and get,” we loaded 4 pulks and enough gear to siege Denali into a Ford F-150 and headed out for a frigid night under the stars. As we pulled pack after pack and sled after sled out of the truck, I could hardly believe we were only spending one night two miles in. Fact: winter camping requires about the same amount of clothes, gadgets and general stuff as flying to the moon.

So, where's the trailhead for Denali?

I was one of the first to strap on a sled. As I started up the hill, the suffering began and I quickly resorted to positive pessimism:

This sled is heavy, but at least the waist belt is sliding down around my thighs.

When we got to camp, I immediately began to prepare for the inevitable -20 degree temps. Wet socks off, dry socks on. Down booties and mukluks finish off the feet. Expedition weight fleece pants go between my longies and my thick hard-shell pants. On top I wore a base layer, a locally made fleece Melanzana hoodie (tight fitting, and the hood works wonders), a synthetic insulated vest, a hardshell jacket, and a Patagonia DAS Parka. I top it all off with a full hood balaclava on top of a beanie and put all the hoods up. And, I never leave the tent without my ensolite pad. Take that, winter.

Since our metabolism is our only real heater out there, I also use my layering system as a drying rack and warm storage unit. Between my layers I stuff my wet socks and spare mittens. In my vest pockets (the real reason I wear a vest) I stick extra beacon, headlamp and camera batteries; chapstick and sunscreen; candy bars; and whatever else becomes useless when cold.

My back hurts from all the bending over, but at least I can barely move with all these layers on.

Levi Burford ties on a big one in Mayflower Gulch, between Leadville and Copper Mountain. Abandoned mining cabin in the background.

Dinner. Aw hells yeah. This is one time in life when only good things can come from eating whole sticks of butter and huge blocks of cheese melted over empty carbohydrates. Sleeping warm starts at dinner, as you load fuel in the furnace. As an après ski we ate packets of ramen and chocolate candy. Then we moved on to our main course: chicken pot pie (which was more like a stir fry of undercooked Bisquick, gravy packets and canned chicken), and fried Spam mac and cheese (which is exactly as delicious as it sounds).

I'm hungry, but at least I'm sitting still. Adam Steel, contemplating calories and stillness.

The food’s undercooked, but at least it’s greasy.

It’s easy to gravitate to the light and emotional warmth of our circular snow kitchen, but when I walked away into the darkness, and turned to the crystal clear sky, I remembered why I love to spend the night outside in the winter. Orion’s bow rose over the basin’s broken ridge, eternally chasing that wild bull, Taurus, and those seven beautiful sisters of the Pleiades. Casiopea, the W, spun like a question straight above — who? where? why? —and the ever-bright Ursa Major, that big bear of the heavens, assured me of the way north to Polaris. With the atoms of our atmosphere frozen in near stillness, and the lunar light still hours of rotation away, the stars shattered black. I imagined an infinite story written above me, the stars like sharp dots and dashes of some astrophysical form of Morse code.

The sky is breathtaking, but at least I’m alive, here and now, to experience it.

I thought of the stars and positive optimism as I snuggled into my parka and down sleeping bag next to my two tentmates. I’m warm, but at least I’m happy and free. Less funny, but just as comforting as its pessimistic counterpart.

The next day, as I wrestled a 7-foot, fully-loaded pulk through ice, shallow snow, and tight trees, I reverted to the tried and true:

There’s a lot of trees, but at least I’m out of control.

See you next week!