A cold story for a hot summer day....  

rm_Sloppyjoe812 59M
58 posts
7/19/2006 12:06 pm
A cold story for a hot summer day....

The winter of 1974 was cold. Not like the pussy winters we get now; I mean really fucking cold! None of this global warming bullshit. Seven real men with parkas and Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Cutting wood and bonding until dusk with the roar of inconsiderate snowmobiles and a blazing fire. The steaming hot stew froze on contact with our aluminum plates. "That's part of the charm of winter camping," said one of the men as we figured ways to get his tongue unstuck from the plate.

We spent the night sitting around the fire drinking whiskey. Lots of whiskey. This whole time I'm listening to stories about other campers whose throats close up and die from alcohol that is too cold. Real man stuff.

Let me back up a bit, I said 7 real men with parkas, but that's not exactly true. 6 men with parkas and every space age piece of winter camp-gear under the sun; and me a fifteen year old with a Navy pea jacket and a sweatshirt.

Shortly after the bottle of whiskey had made a couple of dozen rounds, my head and the surrounding camp scene (beautiful as it was), started to spin. When it got to a good pace and things were whirling by, I was pretty sure I was drunk. Being the polite drunk, I grabbed a tree to steady it and myself, and excused myself from the men. I went directly to my sleeping bag against one side of the tent, and passed out.

I awoke to a darkened tent and snores of six real men. I was freezing. It must have been close to 15 degrees below zero, and my sweatshirt, flimsy sleeping bag and I were frozen solid. But of course that wasn't enough I was sick, drunk sick and that Dinty Moore was working its way up. And of course, I had to piss. I was going to vomit and piss and freeze to death all at the same time (I remember thinking dying was probably the right thing to do under the circumstances). I must have moaned or groaned or something because I woke some of the real men. "Puke in here and I will kill you" said one. "Puke in here and you will sleep outside," said another.

I shuffled out of the tent, stepping on everybody. "Hey faggot, cold?" reached my ears as I was finally out. Outside, in my underwear, in -15° weather. It was too cold to vomit, so I just pissed. It was pretty dark out there but I hoped I was pissing on one of the real men's gear. Stumbling blindly back to the tent, I tripped and fell into the red hot embers of the fire. I burnt my hand really good. Not good enough to feel anything then of course, it was just too fucking cold.

"Jerk," "Pussy," "Little girl," as I stepped on everyone getting back into the tent and my bag. Finally back. Here I am; sick, nauseous and dizzy from the food and alcohol. Freezing beyond belief and my right hand started hurting... It was just about the time the smell of burnt flesh reached my nose. At least I didn't have to piss. Well, I didn't for 10 minutes and then, desperate beyond despair, I got up and repeated the above scenario, without the hand scorching.

Needless to say, hurt & burnt, nauseous & sick, freezing & pissing, I got no sleep that night and suffered a night that seemed to have no end.

The only thing I could do to keep any semblance of sanity, was to stay focused on the Alka Seltzer in my pack. That and a blazing fire, I kept telling myself, will bring me back to life.
In the morning my compassionate companions took a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon in one pan and cooked both in the bacon grease. "Want any?" said one of the men laughingly, pushing a plate with brown greasy eggs and half done bacon in my face. I turned away and tried not to vomit all over the man with the space age parka with polymer protection and dual thermostats. I returned to my task of melting down 10 cups of snow to make 1 cup of water. The one cup I would need for the Alka Seltzer. I remember thinking, "another half hour and the nightmare will end." Shivering, I fixed the bandanna around my burnt hand.

Let me just say I don't know what I was really thinking when the vomiting started; I was watching a glass of pure cold mountain water with two unfizzing Alka Seltzer laying at the bottom. I was reading the small print on the package, "not intended for high altitudes."

The last thing I remember through a haze and fog-like stupor was the voice of a real man "Hey faggot. Coming next year?"


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