Cold Nights, Karaoke and Crawdads
Current mood: contemplative

You haven't lived until you've danced with hypothermia to the strains of "Gimme Three Steps". So I found myself last Saturday night. While most of my friends were out drinking I was slowly freezing to death to a soundtrack by Molly Hatchet and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

 I arrived at my campsite shortly after sunset. The twenty-one miles covered since four pm went relatively easy, thanks in part to reducing my pack weight by forgoing my sleeping bag and a few other luxury items. As smoothly as the walk had gone my feet were still feeling the mileage and I couldn't wait to climb into my hammock for a good nights rest. As I boiled my ramen, jerky and cranberry dinner darkness set in and along with it a drop in the mercury. At first I didn't think much of it but by the time I had finished washing my supper dishes I was digging out my running tights and a long sleeve shirt to fight off the chilly night air.

 As I donned my second layer I mentally prepared myself for the cold night ahead. I told myself it would be no worse than my freezing night at the headwaters of the Mississippi River last January and I'd survived that okay. The worst I was in for was a night of shivering and maybe a case of the sniffles the following day. Been there, done that. It was settled. I could handle it. Then the music started…

 Apparently Saturday night is Karaoke Night at the Riverbend Campround. For seventeen bucks not only do you get a patch of ground to set your tent on and an outhouse to pee in, you're treated to big city entertainment as well! Upon hearing the unmistakable intro to "Sweet Home Alabama" complete with a slurred "Turn it up" I climbed into my hammock with a sigh realizing that a quiet summer evening under the stars was not mine to be had.

 For several minutes I laid in my hammock chastising myself for leaving my sleeping bag behind, my chattering teeth playing accompaniment to a mangled version of "These Boots Were Made for Walking" and I found myself wishing they would walk straight away from the microphone. By the time "Every Rose Has its Thorn" rolled around (as it always does on karaoke night) I was seriously considering packing up camp and walking through the night. In part to keep warm, but mostly to avoid the Bon Jovi song that was sure to come.

 I eventually gave up the idea of walking on, accepted my fate and began counting the minutes to sunrise. The music let up around midnight but the cold persisted, reaching a low of 43 degrees. The periodic slap of a beaver tail on the rivers surface punctuated my misery. A quick shine of my headlamp revealed the source of his aggravation. I had inadvertently set my hammock up directly over his den. If the cold didn't keep me awake the over-sized rodent would see to my forced insomnia.

 Sleep came in one to two minute increments between bouts of shivering wherein I would dream of finding a blanket or warm bed, always waking just before having a chance to make use of it. Upon waking I would breathe into the sleeve of my shirt for warmth and tremble until my body relaxed enough to allow me to drift off in search of another blanket. This dance between sleep, waking and imaginary blankets continued until the first rays of morning sun finally appeared over the tree tops.

 The rising sun brought forth a shift in my mood and I somehow managed to start feeling good again. The long night was over and things could only get better. I found a patch of sunlight on a nearby rock and sat in its warmth watching the morning mist roll across the river. While the karaoke stars were sleeping off their hangovers I was finally getting my respite.

 By 7am I was sharing my breakfast with a crawfish who happily devoured the gobs of oatmeal that fell from my chopsticks and the memory of the previous nights frigid ordeal turned into just that, a memory. I was sore and sleep deprived and wasn't particularly looking forward to walking another twenty miles but at the moment I couldn't have been happier. I popped open a freshwater  mussel and offered it to my crustaceous breakfast companion. As I watched the mudbug scurry under the rock at my feet with a clawful of shellfish I couldn't help but smile and I realized the happiest moments of my life had always arrived in the midst of hardship and suffering.

 Reflecting back over the years I thought of several examples. The first time I laid eyes on the Pacific Ocean brought forth a feeling of indescribable joy but only after so many anxiety ridden days wondering if my money would hold out and my tired truck would make the journey. Sprinting the last mile of my first marathon with tears in my eyes wouldn't have felt so good if not for the anguish of the first twenty five miles. When I dragged my spent body up to the last aid station with forty seven miles of my first ultra marathon behind me I was nearly overcome with euphoria and it never would have happened had it not been for all the pain I endured leading up to that moment. If a freezing night in my hammock was the price to pay to add one more blissful instant to my list, then so be it. With suffering comes happiness.

 I splashed my face with cool river water, waved goodbye to the feasting crawfish and continued my walk, eagerly anticipating the painful miles that lay ahead if only for the happiness that I knew would follow.

Keep it simple.