Every time I find myself sitting in my car at a busy intersection, waiting for an opening in the non-stop traffic that never seems to appear, I try to remember all the times in the past when I have felt that same way. Then, I tell myself, since I'm obviously not still wherever I was back then, a gap will open up this time as well. It's good to remind ourselves occasionally that "this, too shall pass." One of those times occurred while on a snow camping trip with our Boy Scout troop.
Now we were old hands at camping in Strawberry Troop 33. There was some sort of weekend outing every month, with a 10-day or two-week extended trip each summer. We camped in the Sierras, on the beach, in the pouring rain at Camp Tamarancho, and even in the snow.
Fortunately, we had the ideal spot for snow camping at Granlibakken, a ski resort just outside of Tahoe City. Rusty, the owner, had no problem if we set up camp near the old practice ski jumping hill (left over from the Squaw Valley Olympics in 1960). He also didn't mind if we cut some green boughs off his fir trees to use as insulation beneath our tents.
Camping in the snow was usually pretty uneventful. As long as you brought enough warm clothes, you would be okay. However, some Scouts, despite detailed packing instructions, would still manage to screw up. One fellow, Bobbie P., when provided with a thin flannel liner intended to provide an extra bit of warmth to his sleeping bag, thought that the liner was all he was supposed to bring. Fortunately, his generous physique provided its own insulation. That same trip, he also managed to have rented two left ski boots back in Mill Valley. Again, he was fortunate to be able to get the required (and infinitely more practical) left-right pair at the resort's ski shop.
But our biggest challenge came in February 1970, when I was 14. The snowfall had been unusually heavy that winter, so our adult Scout leaders decided we should try our hand at sleeping in actual snow caves. I still like to watch survival shows, such as Man vs. Wild with Bear Grylls, so you can imagine how exciting it was back then to contemplate actually carving a shelter out of snow and ice.
We arrived at Granlibakken in the early afternoon, donned our skis and backpacks, and trudged the half-mile or so up the gentle slope to our campsite. The accumulated snow was impressive, laying heavily on the tree boughs and forming deep troughs around their trunks. My patrol, the Kodiak Bears, which consisted of Steven Gallagher, John Wuoltee, Pat Norton, Mark Linker and myself, chose a deep drift set against a low hillock and started digging.
It was surprisingly vigorous work, so we took turns. One person would dig, as the others shoveled away the snow that was being excavated. The entrance was barely wider than our shoulders, all the better to keep the heat in. But inside, the cave opened up into two substantial chambers, each intended to fit a couple of scouts. The fifth member of our patrol would sleep just inside the entryway. We had to dig around the occasional buried tree branch, but after a couple of hours, it was done. We used a ski pole to poke a vent hole in the roof and placed a thick layer of boughs on the floor, with plastic drop cloths on top to keep our sleeping bags from getting covered in pitch. There were even little carved shelves to hold our battery lanterns and knick-knacks. We had done a pretty fine job and looked forward to trying it out.
Making a fire from slightly damp wood was a piece of cake for a veteran patrol such as ours. We soon had dinner going as we struggled to keep warm against the quickly dropping temperature. We ate around the fire, sitting on Ensolite sleeping pads to insulate our backsides from the snow. Dessert was followed by hot cocoa and then we turned in for the night.
Getting settled in our snow cave was an interesting proposition, with the five of us trying to get undressed in our sleeping bags simultaneously, but we managed. The last step was to stuff the next day's set of clothing into the foot of our bags to keep it warm. Once we got settled, we didn't want to turn off our lanterns, which reflected nicely off our handsome snow ceiling. We told dirty jokes, played cards and otherwise amused ourselves from about 8 till 10 pm, when we finally drifted off to sleep, as snug as five Kodiak bears in their den.
Until you've had a chance to sleep in a snow cave, it's hard to imagine how warm it can get. Not toasty warm, but definitely many degrees above freezing. I awoke in the middle of the night to a persistent drip, which was coming from the ceiling, though I couldn't see exactly where in the pitch black of the cave. And not just one drip, several. My sleeping bag was getting wet, but I just repositioned myself, covered my head and went back to sleep.
A few hours later - I couldn't tell how many - I awoke again. It wasn't that I was cold; I was drenched. Had we known better (or been able to see into the future, where Bear would point out this very salient detail on his show), we would have made the roof of our cave much smoother; instead, every small peak carved by the snow shovel dripped snow-melt like so many stalactites. There were whispered grumbles from the few of us who were awake.
While we weren't in danger of hypothermia, there was a more dire effect the dripping snow was having on our bodies - we had to pee, badly. Unfortunately, the mouth of the cave was blocked by John Wuoltee, who was somehow managing to sleep like a champ, unaffected by the impromptu sprinkler system that had gone off in our cozy little home.
We discussed crawling over him, but those thoughts were tempered by the realization that we would then have to go out into the freezing night in our damp clothes. Warmth somehow trumped incontinence and we suffered through the wee (no pun intended) hours of the morning, trying not to think of the insistent drip-drip-drip that tormented our bulging bladders.
Gratefully, the dawn eventually made its reluctant appearance up our little valley. As soon as the sunlight reached the entrance to our cave, we burst forth like so many pups from a pregnant sled dog. We dragged our soaked sleeping bags outside and fumbled through our backpacks for our second set of spare clothes. Yes, they were freezing, but at least they were dry. We changed right there, standing barefoot and naked on our insulating pads, our breath coming out in billowing clouds. We pulled up frozen zippers with numb fingers and crammed our feet into leather boots that had frozen overnight into grotesque shapes. Then we all wandered off to write our names in the snow and felt much, much better.
I don't think the Kodiaks ever made a campfire with such urgency. Minutes later, it was roaring and we laughed heartily over our ordeal as we thawed out. Despite how time had seemed to crawl as we lay shivering in our sodden cave, awaiting the dawn that never seemed to come; it finally did, and we now found our adventure endlessly amusing.
I suppose that's the way it is with most things in life. You can either choose to wear your trials as albatrosses around your neck, or as badges of honor that commemorate where you've been. Given a choice, I prefer the latter. It's funny what valuable life lessons can be learned while spending the night in a dripping snow cave. That, and always take the time to make the ceiling as smooth as you possibly can.
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