Power of Cold
by Ian Cotter
The most beautiful and the most painful experiences I’ve ever had as a human being have taken place in the wilderness. Backpacking and hiking, I’ve found, have the remarkable capacity to crush your spirit and rebuild it again, in the same fatal blow.
One such time was in the deep backcountry of Pennsylvania, in the forgotten and unkempt forests that lie between the abandoned ghost towns of once-prosperous coal mines, ramshackle meth cabins, and mobile homes. It was the beginning of the most miserable backpacking trip of my entire life, late December of 2023. My friends and I, expatriates of the University at Buffalo Outdoor Adventure Club, had planned the trip months prior, imagining a vacation of crisp snow and winter sights.
Mother Nature had other plans for us.
When every step I took hydrated my foot, it made me feel some type of way. A slow seep of poisonous water that penetrated me to the bone. Slow death and fast disappointment. Taking that with the pill of 38 degrees and a patient drizzle…it was enough to make me nauseous. Every day was this, every day!
But it wasn’t all bad, at night we laughed. We found our light in the fire and professed our misery to one another before gorging and snoozing. We slept from nine to six and healed our wounds, replacing them with determination.
Until we had to wake up and put on our socks, more water than sock, from the day before.
Two days in and the trip began to wear on me, making me bitter. I found myself becoming curt with my friends, looking for someone to blame for my misery. “Why couldn’t they have looked at the weather beforehand,” I’d think to myself. “If only they’d planned better, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” It should have been a clean 20 degrees and sunny, with a few inches of snow on the ground for scenery. On I trod, becoming more and more indignant by the mile.
This came to a head on the third day of our journey, when our path called us to cross a creek, fat with rain. It flowed before us like a raging furnace of icy prowess. Above it was a log, pointing us the way across.
I wanted to get it over with, so I went first. This was a mistake, but I did it anyway. A single step onto the precarious existence of this log revealed to me the slippery surface which would betray even the slightest imbalance to the depths below. Carefully at first, but then boldly, I went on, using my poles to keep me upright. Each microsecond of judgement made the difference between falling or standing. It was becoming taxing to my already taxed body. In a momentary lapse of judgement, I placed my pole into an uneasy crevice between two rocks below me. This, it turned out, was a fatal miscalculation.
In I plunged, the callous cold of the water piercing me to the bone. Instantly, numbness and a burning frost spread across my skin and enveloped my body.
Paralyzed by embarrassment, I stood for a second in the creek with the water gushing past my quaking legs. I peered sheepishly back across the creek to where my companions waited patiently.
A small chuckle escaped one of their lips, “Thanks for being the test dummy!”
Ouch.
With a newfound humility, I lifted myself back onto the log and awkwardly butt-slid the remainder of the way. I waited for my friends to make the same mistake as me…they did not. Instead, they noted the obvious alternative route that lay conveniently upstream: a narrow strip of creek where the two sides nearly met, easily bridged by a single stride. They crossed without a word and met me – annoyed, with pants dripping water – on the other side.
With no choice but to continue, I gathered my broken will and pushed on, knowing I wouldn’t be dry for hours.
That night, I soaked my bones in the heat of our fire, feeling defeated. How have I got caught up in this mess of muddy rain and soaked silence? My heart wanted home, but my brain knew I had to wait. Indeed, the physical and emotional wounds had taken their toll, but I knew I had no choice except to sit with the uncomfortable feeling.
The next morning was no picnic either. I put on my wet socks from the day before, winced as the soaked cloth contacted my blistering skin. Then, with shoes on and a maddening desired for heat, we caught a brisk pace down the trail to the car. Remembering how I had rushed across the creek to my demise, I took a second to look around.
The trees were shining in dew. The sun had come out, finally, on our very last day. I pulled air into my lungs and felt the coldness flood my nose; it reminded me of myself for a moment. Here, for now, we were okay, in the low gleam of the quiet winter sun and the vastness of the woods.
~
Ian Cotter is a Junior in Environmental Science at SUNY ESF and spends most of his time running, reading, writing, or playing drums (@thatbandprom on IG!). Ian’s childhood was spent divvied up between Pleasantville, NY and Western Massachusetts. Through the latter he developed his love for nature that persists today, questing in the forest and exploring various untouched crevices of the woods. Ian draws on his experiences hiking in the backcountry and his love of the outdoors to inform his writing style, trying to evoke in the reader feelings of pain, beauty, and peace.
Image Credit: Ian Cotter, December 2023
Author’s Note: The piece “Power of Cold” was initially written as a short paper for my EWP 300 class. The professor had asked us to write about a humbling experience and what we learned from it. In class, the reception was good, so I thought about expanding on it for our final project. Then when I heard of Unearthed’s theme, “Seeking the Light”, I thought the abject misery and cathartic conclusion of “Power of Cold” might end up being a good fit. As I was writing “Power of Cold,” I wanted to make the reader feel what I felt when the story unfolded: the coldness and isolation, embarrassment and humility, and ultimately the lesson of slowing down to appreciate what you have.
