Recently it snowed. Maybe you're thinking "What's the big deal nimrod?" Well, it's a big deal because it hardly ever snows in our lovely neck of the woods. Granted, the snowfall totaled about a fourth of an inch. But hey, it snowed.
It got me thinking about the most miserable experience I ever had in the snow. This traumatizing event was courtesy of the Boy Scouts of America. If ever an act of child abuse was committed, this was it. Our scout leaders had the audacity to......wait for it......wait for it......take us on a winter campout ..... in the mountains ..... in snow up to our waists ..... with no tents. Yep, amigo. You read that right. NO TENTS.
And why weren't there any tents? Because we were about to create a shelter even better than a tent - a snow cave. Whoever's idea this was ought to be shot. The leaders had us take the Lazy-Man-Approach-To-Snow-Caves: we just removed snow from under some picnic tables which were already covered by a few feet of snow. That seemed easy enough.
We situated our bedding in the snow caves, then went to sit around the fire. And I swear to you, without a hint of exaggeration, that my toes froze completely solid. You could have broke them off like peanut brittle. And then it was time to go to bed. And the longest 8 hours of my life began.
My Walmart special sleeping bag didn't quite cut it in the Arctic tundra. I might as well have taken a bed sheet. But wait, it gets worse. After about 15 minutes in our snow cave, it started dripping. And dripping. And dripping. Eventually the top of my sleeping bag was soaking. And the bottom of my sleeping bag was in a puddle of water. And did I mention we were inside SNOW?!?! I'm positive that nobody else inside our cave slept for a single second. But nobody said a word. We all laid there in quiet, tortured silence praying that our lives would end quickly.
I can assure you with full confidence that I will never, ever, ever, never go on a winter camping trip ever again. Never. Ever.