TO MAKE A CUP OF COFFEE

I can’t retrieve the steps for lighting the stove. I can’t stop shivering and my thinking’s confused. Two signs of hypothermia. The stove “instructions” which elude me are buried deep in my mind like a forgotten phone number. I can’t pull them out. I know that the stove is filled with precisely the right amount of fuel. I don’t have to waste time in this life-threatening situation filling it. And I’m not sure I could perform a fine motor skill like pouring fuel into a tiny funnel nestled in the stove’s tank spout. I can go straight to fire.

Too much fuel, and the air won’t mix right. I’ll have a weak fire. When I’m fumble-fingered like now, I’m more likely to put too much fuel in the stove. Precious minutes will be wasted while the stove burns off enough fuel to create adequate air space in the tank to support a strong, life-saving flame. But my stove is set up to create an instant inferno. So, what to do next…fold out the legs. Put it on a flat place. Do I turn that valve up or down? How many times do I pump it? Do I pump it before or after I turn the valve? The match is easy. Waterproof and windproof, they always light. But where are they? And where’s the coffee?

“Going straight to fire”… that reminds me of Jack London’s short story, To Build a Fire.

A warm drink is one of the better things to do for hypothermia. I can’t make a cup of coffee, because with my confused thinking, I can’t find things and am not sure I can successfully perform simple tasks. But I must make a cup of coffee. Just as the man must build a fire in Jack London’s To Build a Fire. London’s story, originally written for boys, and then juiced up by Jack for a broader audience, is a classic. Some argue it’s London’s best short story. I first read it in sophomore English. Now, it’s a staple in some middle schools. There are only two characters—a man and a dog. The man takes off on a solo hike to meet his buddies. Then, he unexpectedly falls through thin ice covering a perpetual spring and soaks his legs. He’s in a real “pickle” and must make fire or die of hypothermia.

The angry wind hurls snow across Lost Lake in sheets. The thermometer on my key ring says 27F. The wind chill is in the teens. Hypothermia weather, especially with wet skin and clothing.

Just start the damn stove, Adam. Put the water on to boil right outside the bivy. And take off your soaked clothes. Get naked in the sleeping bag..

I know what to do after starting the stove. It’s getting the stove started and finding the snacks that I can’t quite seem to do.

Unlike the luckless man in London’s story, I’m not a “newcomer.” Experienced and a strong hiker, I’m carrying the “Ten Essentials” and know how to use them. The man had only a sandwich and fire making supplies.

But I can kill myself in the weather I’m facing if I don’t get my shit together. Despite all my high-tech equipment.

The man in To Build a Fire does have a dog. The dog’s instinct about the weather proves superior to the man’s intellect. But the dog regards the man as only a provider of fire and food. The dog has suffered one too many beatings at the hands of the man and the “boys back at camp.” He and the man share no common bond. When the man can no longer provide, the dog leaves.

My dog wouldn’t leave; she would find a way to help.

The “old timers” told the man not to hike alone in the Yukon at temperatures below -50F. “Old timers” told me not to hike alone in the Rockies.

Grandpa said, “don’t go out in a wilderness without your dog.”

I desperately want to climb Wheeler Peak “solo.” I’ve ignored danger, like the man in the story who just wants to “make good time” on the trail, get to camp, and share a “warm supper with the boys.”

Jack London calls him “the man.” But I have a name, a wife and children.

The “man” didn’t consider the cold at all, except to notice that it was “really cold.” I took my trip before widespread internet use. I haven’t spent the entire week leading up to my solo attempt to summit Wheeler checking and rechecking the weather forecast. My favorite TV weatherman in West Texas always included New Mexico. He makes no mention of the late September snowstorm that deposits two feet at the top of New Mexico’s highest mountain. Says the weather should be “nice this weekend.” The aspen foliage is “nearing its peak.”

When I begin my hike, I’m wearing a synthetic long john shirt with a high-tech hiking shirt over it. I sport quick drying pants, synthetic socks and a liner, Gore-Tex boots. It’s a day To Build a Fire. “Cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray,” as London would have described it. The fog hangs so low I can’t see Wheeler. It nearly obscures the yellow aspen. Although the temperature is in the high 30’s, I’m too warm and sweat profusely as I gain elevation carrying 35 pounds on my back. The cold, penetrating rain starts less than a mile from the trailhead. I stop and put on my Gore-Tex rain jacket and pants. I don’t remove any of the damp layers. Like the spring-fed pool—lurking under the ice in To Build a Fire--hypothermia lurks beneath the Gore-Tex.

About a mile from the lake, the snow flies. The temperature plummets.

Arriving at the lake, I set up my bivy, rolling out my sleeping pad. I take my sleeping bag out of the compression sack and fluff it out. I should’ve started the stove first.

While I’ve set up camp, the fury of the storm increases. It’s a whiteout. Almost a blizzard.

I haven’t even put new, dry layers next to my sleeping bag. Nor have I covered my head except with the rain jacket hood. My fingers are ungloved. My head beads with moisture. Icicles form in my eyebrows. As in the London story, my “blood wants to retreat from the cold.” I continue to lose body heat through my icy fingers and bare head while looking for the coffee and snacks. And trying to remember how to light the stove.

I’ve violated many “rules.” Will I pay the same price as the man? Once he broke through the thin ice hiding the spring, he had to make a fire or die. Hypothermia occurs in conditions much less harsh than -50F. If you’re wet, it can happen in 50- or 60-degree weather. Especially if it’s windy. And it’s blowing a gale at the lake!

First numbness in my extremities. Then, my thinking will become increasingly confused. Followed by irrational actions. Finally, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up. All because I can’t make a cup of coffee.

I panic. I feel a lump of ice forming under my breast bone. How to find and do simple things seems “remote” and “disconnected” from my body and from “me.” Just like the man in the story.

And like him, I must start the stove or possibly die. Just as he must build a fire…or die.

Damn it all! I unzip every compartment in my pack and dump all the contents into a pile.

The tea bags and energy bars are easily located. The match boxes are green and obvious. I find the micro fiber towel that I can use to dry off once I’m inside the bivy. Coffee is too much trouble, requires a mesh filter, grounds. Tea is quick, simple and right. A bag, hot water and a cup. I dig deep for the steps to start my stove.

I prefer coffee. But tea and a good stove save your life in the wilderness. Just ask the old timers!

London’s character had no tea. And failed at fire.

Unlike the unfortunate man, nothing can put out my fire. If I only light it, I almost can’t fail. Even a torrent of snow from an overloaded spruce bough won’t extinguish it. Spruces surround the lake. But a dump of snow would barely make a good stove sputter.

When the snow tumbled off the spruce bough onto his fire, the Yukon issued the man’s death warrant. The last thing he does is run around trying to warm up. But he can’t run enough to recover his body heat. Nor can he possibly run all the way to camp. His “warm supper with the boys” is no more. He freezes to death; or as we’d say now, he dies of hypothermia. His dog smells “death” and his instinct says, “Leave!”

But I won’t get to what London called “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” And no rescue dog will “smell death” on me. Because I begin “One Step at a Time” to set off the atomic bomb known as a Coleman Peak One stove! I open the legs, put it on a flat place. Pump it 30 times. Turn up the lever. The burner spews gas. I light the match. A yellow flame leaps. I pump until the flame turns bright blue. Close the pump handle. Turn down the lever; adjust the flame to a loud roar; put on a pot of water. I toss a bag of English Breakfast into the waiting cup. Within 2 minutes, the tea is steeping. And in not much more than 5 minutes, I’m dry inside the bivy, naked in the sleeping bag. I’m naked on purpose, rather than “paradoxically undressing” which is the medical term for undressing at the “wrong time” in the latter stages of hypothermia. Wet clothing is at the bottom of the bag where my body heat can dry it. New, dry layers at the top of the sleeping bag form a comfy pillow. The pile of loose gear created by my life-saving tantrum is secured from the snowstorm in a large stuff sack. A wool stocking cap sits on my head. I’m now able to remember that if you’re cold when you get in that bag, you for damn sure don’t want your head to be naked! I enjoy my cup of tea and an energy bar.

I’ll take a nap. Warm up. Dress in dry layers. Won’t sweat hiking downhill to my old red truck. I’ll drive into Red River. Rent a condo with a wood stove. Make a fire. Buy a six pack of Dos XXs amber. Order a pizza. Take a hot shower and melt the last of the ice beneath my breastbone. Curl up by the TV under a blanket. Watch the closing arguments in the OJ Simpson murder trial.

They’ll find him guilty.

Jack London’s right. “One must not be too sure of things.”

But it’s the best cup of tea ever!