I was all packed. The bike was loaded. I had a long weekend ahead. The forecast was not good, but that did not deter. I was totally committed to this. It was time to get on the bike and put some distance between me and all the. .. STUFF!
It was a time much like this one. Winter had gripped us with an iron hand. We’d had a lot of snow, and ice, and cold, and misery. The last snowfall was several weeks behind us. The roads were clear, and I was, no two ways about it, going!
There is a phenomenon in flying called “gethomitis.” It often leads to a bad incident, as the pilot focuses on an objective and ignores multiple danger signals. There is another one. It’s called “Target Fixation.” That one comes from World War II. Fighter pilots tend to be a very highly dedicated and extremely focused lot. When practicing aerial gunnery, they would become so intent on hitting the target with the guns that they would sometimes fly right into the ground.
Given the right set of circumstances, I can get into a frame of mind much like those. On the occasion in question, that set of circumstances was in place.
It was cold and cloudy as I started out, and the bike was heavy. In fact it was overloaded. It wallowed and was a struggle to control. At least part of that was lack of practice. I hadn’t ridden a loaded bike in months. “At least,” I thought, “it’s not raining. It’s so hard to get on the bike when it’s already raining.”
The first drops of rain began about an hour into the ride. It wasn’t heavy or hard, just an occasional spit-spat. “No big thing, and probably won’t last,” I thought, ignoring forecasts and common sense.
Another hour passed. I was climbing by then, headed for the high country. I stopped and pulled on rain gear, then re-mounted and continued to ride. Shortly after that, I started noticing that oncoming cars had some snow on them. I ignored that too.
I reached my turn off, onto a small mountain road. By then there was some snow/sleet/slush mixed in with the rain. The road was closed, but I’d expected that. This particular road was often closed and blocked off all Winter long. I rode around the barrier and into six inches of crusty, unbroken snow.
The heavy bike was handling the snow well. My wide touring tires were crunching through the top and, as long as I didn’t stand and crush the pedals, I had good traction. It was a bit harder riding. The snow was giving me more resistance. Somewhere in the next hour or two the conditions changed to steady snow. At the time, I didn’t notice the transition.
I realized I was getting cold, and hungry, so I pulled the bike over to the side and propped it against a pine tree. The tree was affording some cover; the ground under it was almost free of accumulated snow. I pulled my poncho off the bike and rooted around in the panniers. In short order, I’d set up a temporary lean-to, had my trusty little pack stove going, and was heating hot chocolate. I munched on a cold sandwich as I warmed up. About then I looked up and noticed that it was snowing harder. A lot harder. I could not see my bike, parked only about twenty feet from the opening of my hasty shelter.
Friends, I still did not get it.
I warmed up, finished my snack, put the stove out, and (carefully) packed it. I made a decision and rather than rolling the poncho up and packing it, pulled it on over the rest of my clothing. I spent some few minutes knocking snow off of my bike and then mounted up.
Climbing through rapidly accumulating snow. Each pedal stroke was a marvel. My foot would go down into the snow. It was only a bit past noon, but it was getting darker, and I was having trouble seeing where the road was.
The third time I dropped into a ditch… I decided that I’d come up here to camp and get away. I knew I wasn’t near as far as I’d intended, but this looked like a good spot.
I dragged the bike with me, back into the woods. I found a spot that was mostly sheltered, and began setting up my camp.
I was lucky. The snow that was heated and softened by my small fire, waited until after I’d cooked my dinner. Then it dropped off of the trees and extinguished my fire. I crawled into the tent. Once again, I started the little pack stove. I ran it just long enough to heat the interior of the tent. Then I struggled out of my sodden clothing, and crawled into my sleeping bag. From inside the bag, I extinguished the stove, and then closed the tent up for the night.
It was quiet in there. There is an uncanny quiet to being in a tent, in a snowfall. For a while there is a hissing as the snow accumulates on the tent, but then that goes away, muffled by the layer already there, and all sound is shut out.
It was still snowing in the morning, but looked like it might be near the end. The sky was brightening a bit to the south. I stayed in the tent for most of the day, watching the snow gradually taper off.
It took me two days to get back home. I later measured my “tour.” I’d covered only a bit more than forty miles from my home, before conditions stopped me in my tracks. It could have been bad, but it wasn’t. I was lucky, and I’d needed the break.
The two day trip home, through the aftermath of a blizzard, was a nightmare. I loved every minute of it, but I have not gone Winter camping (excepting some military experiences) since. These days my feet and hands do not warm themselves. I avoid cold, don’t like it much. In a way that’s a pity.
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