Column: Take the Reese’s Cup, damn it

Camping in the snow requires its own set of skills. My friend, Alexander, who is planning to hike from Canada to Mexico next year, decided he ought to practice them. My friend Michelle and I tagged along.

We set off for Mount Mitchell, where we found ourselves shin-deep in snow.

On the ground it gave everything the look of undiscovered wilderness. In a way, it was — no one had seen it as it was right then, and only the tracks of rabbits and coyotes marred the snow. I felt honored to experience it, but mere appreciation does little to protect the unprepared.

Instead of wearing real hiking pants, I opted for four layers of leggings. Four waistbands crowded under the hip belt of a pack make for some interesting chafing patterns. Leggings are also hard to remove, and shuffling uphill in deep snow quickly becomes sweaty work.

“You’ve gotten to be a pretty strong hiker,” Alexander told me. I beamed.

We pitched camp as dark fell. The layers of soaked spandex started to cool down fast.

I couldn’t get warm. I curled my knees to my chest to stop shaking. Soon I was crying. It just happened; I couldn’t help it.

I felt a pat on my back.

“Want to talk about it?” Alexander seemed pretty amused. Damn it, I thought. He’s seen through my “strong hiker” ruse. If I wasn’t so cold, I would have been embarrassed. As it was, I was having trouble remembering enough words to explain the situation.

“I’m just cold. I’ll be fine,” I said instead, reflecting on how much I preferred hiking alone. I run alone, too. I handle pain better on my own, without anyone watching. And if I can’t, well, there’s no one to see.

Alexander responded by handing me a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

Michelle marched up with an armful of sticks. Her mission was clear; she, who had just become the goddess of life-sustaining warmth in my eyes, was bent on making a fire.

I wanted Alexander to leave me alone. Instead he handed me another peanut butter cup. I took it and sat by the fire. The water in my leggings turned to steam.

I was ashamed because the last thing any hiker wants to be is the weakest link. But Alexander and Michelle didn’t see it that way. They told me to stay put when I offered to help. Michelle fed the fire. Alexander made dinner.

I steamed.

Later, when we were all warm and fed, Alexander read from his Wilderness First Aid handbook.

“Symptoms of moderate hypothermia: shivering, clumsiness, confusion, irritability, poor decision-making...”

On the hike home, we took a screaming, scantily-clad dip in a creek of snowmelt. In our goose-bumped skin we were cold, shivering, vulnerable.

But it was OK. We were friends. Before the trip I thought suffering was best done alone. Now I think otherwise. There’s no shame in reaching out in times of weakness. Especially if there might be peanut butter cups in the equation.