by Clint Thomsen

Guest Columnist

We humans are a different sort of creature. I've read that we're the only animal that continues to drink milk after weaning, and that we're the only animal capable of moral action. We must also be the only animal that places itself in the most uncomfortable and precarious of situations just for the fun of it.

That last presumption crossed my mind this week as I read an e-mail from my friend, Tyler, inviting some friends and I to go camping in the west desert in January. Perhaps Tyler doesn't realize that January is the coldest and bleakest month of the year. Maybe he doesn't recall our freeze-fest in the southern Oquirrhs a few years ago. Certainly he couldn't have forgotten a fateful winter night in the Wasatch range when the cold almost claimed us, could he?

It happened back in that magical post-high-school, pre-LDS-mission window -- back when my buddies and I kept "go-bags" in our trunks for impulsive camping trips, when trip planning was an afterthought and weather was merely a side note. We were at an age when the vigor of youth and the prospect of adventure tend to temper the effects of severe weather on the body and mind. This is not always a good thing.

We'd spent many a cold night in snow caves, and Chan, Tyler, and I planned to do so again that night. The plan was simple: Ride a ski bus up Big Cottonwood Canyon, spend the day building a snow cave, sleep in it, then catch the bus back to town in the morning.

We could hardly contain our excitement as the bus labored up the canyon through a soft but steady snowfall. Had we known then what we knew later that night, we may not have pulled the 'stop' cable so enthusiastically as we approached the Spruces picnic area.

As the bus pulled away, we slogged past the picnic area and into the woods, stopping periodically to satisfy our primal urge to dive into drifts and hurl ourselves down slopes. In the summer months, the place is abuzz with kids and dogs and roasted marshmallows. But in winter the winds blow and the mercury drops, and the canyon accepts its annual baptism of ice. Snow had now completely erased the concrete fire rings and picnic tables. The bare picnic site was now just another white acre in an endless pristine winterscape.

We found our spot and began to tunnel, but soon realized we weren't working with good packing snow. A good snow cave requires moisture and depth. This snow was light, dry and shallow. Nevertheless, we worked the day away, belting out Irish folk tunes and hashing out the blueprints of our masterpiece.

It's amazing how "dry" snow can get you wet so fast. Within an hour, I had soaked through two pairs of gloves. Several hours of work had not produced a viable shelter, and darkness fell as we watched the last city-bound bus of the day pass by in the distance.

Our first panicked thoughts came when we realized the cave wasn't going to work and the snow wasn't going to stop. Shivering and hungry, we made our way back down to a roofed pavilion we had passed earlier. I changed out of my first pair of pants and they stood up by themselves, frozen in form.

After gnawing on frozen jerky, we scoured the forest for firewood, finally resorting to green pine boughs to fuel a small, smoky fire. Once the green boughs dried, they smoldered slowly and pathetically. We dreaded the trek back to our failed snow cave. But even more, we dreaded the inevitable moment our tiny flame would die. As that moment approached, Tyler stood up and removed his coat. In an act of either profound benevolence or chill-induced madness, he laid it over the flame, hoping to buy us another ten minutes of warmth. In a final mocking gesture, the fading embers simply melted the coat and died.

Now in full survival mode, our minds turned to the subject of shelter. We had no snow cave and the pavilion offered no protection from the wind. Scanning our surroundings, we focused on the picnic tables. The snow had covered them completely, leaving mostly sealed cavities beneath their tops and creating what amounted to pre-fab igloos.

We burrowed into the sturdiest one and feverishly unpacked our sleeping bags. Since the snow around us wasn't packed, it didn't provide the insulation that a properly built snow cave would, and we began to freeze again.

I've never felt closer to death than I felt that night. My extremities were numb and the rest of my body stung like a second-degree burn. We talked as much as we could, trying to laugh about our predicament. After a while, Chan and Tyler were silent. The psychological trauma was almost worse than the cold itself. I didn't want to fall asleep for fear my life would slip away, but the thought of laying awake and counting the seconds until morning was almost a more horrifying prospect. I slipped in and out, checking my watch sometimes several times per minute.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sun's morning rays pierced the thinner spots in our snow walls, plucking us from our stupor. We broke through to a blue sky and the sound of vehicles on the road. We were cold and numb, but still alive. The long night was over. We gathered our things, hobbled toward the road, and caught the morning bus.

This January's campout in the west desert won't be so bad. We'll have the luxury of a springbar tent and a vehicle, and I'd like to think we're a little wiser these days. But as the snowflakes fall outside, it's hard not to recall that harrowing night under the picnic table.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.