Sandecki writes from Terrace, B.C. This column originally appeared in the Terrace Standard.
In winter, any foolish decision – snowmobiling in avalanche areas, skiing out of bounds or walking two miles in subzero wind inadequately clothed – can result in death by hypothermia.
One January night when I was 21, hypothermia nearly got me. Fortunately, I was rescued in time, but I will always suffer circulatory problems in both legs.
It was my first morning returning to a job in Saskatoon after a three month absence. Co-workers, stymied by my standoffishness, ignored me as though we had not worked together for two years previously. Near lunchtime, loneliness overwhelmed me, loneliness so profound I fled the building, retrieved my luggage from the YWCA, and boarded the afternoon Greyhound for the four hour ride home.
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I so dreaded explaining my impetuous behaviour to my parents that I didn’t notify them I would be arriving on the 9 p.m. bus, needing a ride to the farm.
An aunt and uncle, who lived half a block from the depot, would gladly have bunked me for the night, but I was too shy to ask. And they, too, would quiz me on why I quit work half way through my first day.
At home, Dad would be settled in, nodding over a newspaper. Why ask him to dress up in wind-proof mackinaw and two pairs of overalls and drive in below-zero dark to fetch me? I could walk.
Leaving my suitcase at the depot, I confidently set out. Sporadic moonlight outlined bluffs, fencelines and the road. I couldn’t get lost.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know that for the first winter ever, farmers had forsaken diagonal shortcuts over fields in favour of snowplowing driveways to the nearest maintained road allowance.
I hiked east out of town and turned north, raising my wool scarf so it protected my face. At the first east-west fenceline, I angled right, into the field, aiming for a bluff where the neighbour always fed his cattle hay around a strawstack. But instead of stepping on hardpacked trail, I sank.
Snow filled my boots. Little wonder; nothing had driven over the field since harvest.
Later, as I stopped in the lee of the bluff to empty snow from my boots, startled Herefords ceased chewing to watch me remove my coat and cardigan, tug a sweater sleeve over each boot, and lock the sweater hem in the waistband of my slacks.
The satin lining of my coat was icy as an inner tube as I plunged my bare arms back into the sleeves. With mittened hands deep in coat pockets, I faced into a biting wind.
No longer believing any trail existed, I traversed open areas where wind had scoured off much of the snow, even though I was trading body heat for easier passage.
When I finally reached our barn, it was from the rear through a no-man’s-land of tangled rosebushes and squeaking poplars. Exhausted, jaws clamped, I sank deep into loose snow, unwilling to move. I was so cold, I felt cosy.
That’s when our nine-year-old Golden Retriever pounced on me, and taking advantage of my inertia, sloshed his tongue over my numb cheeks.
My parents were dumbfounded when I walked in. They recovered once they realized I was only frozen, not fired. They chastized me for not letting them know I was coming home on the bus. They roundly scolded me for not asking to be picked up at the depot. They pointed out I could have stayed the night in town at my aunt’s. They also predicted I had frostbitten both ankles.
They were right on all counts.
