The Weekend of Manliness: the fallen
Several years ago, longer than I care to remember, some guys would get together for a weekend of manliness. We would rent a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness, hike in with all of our supplies and hunker down for a weekend of manly activities like card games, firewood chopping and math equations without a calculator until someone remembered that his phone had a calculator. The kicker was that we would do this in February, the not quite dead of winter.
Four guys hanging out in the same cabin for a weekend led to questionable decisions like the manliness games that usually involved running around the cabin and throwing ice balls at each other. When we were short of firewood or just looking for something constructive and destructive to do. Firewood can be used by anyone and in the Alaskan wilderness leaving firewood at a cabin could literally save someone’s life. However, it still takes chopping up a dead tree unless you don’t have an axe. Then you need to try something else.
The Weekend of Manliness went the way of other traditions that men will participate in for a time. Anyone who would participate ended up getting married, moving away, having children and a host of other excuses until it didn’t make sense to organize what used to be one of the best events of the year. It just made more sense for the two of us that were left to order take and bake pizzas and watch BSG or some insanely terrible movie – it was another form of male bonding that didn’t involve braving the elements or being cold, plus pizza.
Still, as I got older, I longed for the weekend to make its return. I longed for the ability to be away from my computer, to be out of cell phone range and to experience the great outdoors in a way that only Alaskan winter could deliver. Sure, there was a good chance that I could end up with frostbite, hypothermia or dead, but on the positive side, the chances of getting eaten by a bear were extremely tiny.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the band back together again, so I decided to make the first mistake, and one that only a cheechako would make, I decided to go to a cabin by myself. Traveling the Alaskan wilderness alone, even in the best of weather is a chump move. You should always travel with someone else – if for no other reason than that person may be able to help you out of a jam. But this was to be the Weekend of Manliness – I was harkening back to my imagined roots of strength and outdoorsiness, and I had a book I was planning to finish reading.
So I headed out in my rental car. It was morning, and there was a Winter Storm Warning, but I was dressed warmly enough. I figured I could beat the storm and have coffee on the stove by sundown. The cabin would only be about 3 miles from the parking area. My second mistake made, I got to the parking area and headed out.
The going was beautiful. The sun was rising the snow was glistening. The cold was brisk and bracing. All in all, I could tell this was going to be the best weekend alone that I could hope to imagine. The going was slow because the paths were covered in powder. To be truthful, I was a bit out of shape, and my pack was heavier than I expected. Still I trudged on following what I thought was the direction I should go. About halfway through my hike, I realized that I was heading down the wrong path. I realized this because it had been two hours and I hadn’t reached the cabin yet. The snow wasn’t that deep, and I couldn’t have been that out of shape.
I pulled out my map realized where I made the error and instead of going back the way I came, I made my third mistake. I decided to continue on. The turn to the cabin was just up ahead I was sure. After drinking some water, I started forward while chewing on some teriyaki jerky.
After another hour and no sign of the turn I was supposed to take, the clouds rolled over the sun, and the terrain became grey. My mistakes had caught up with me. I knew making one mistake in Alaska could be overcome. Making two mistakes usually meant real pain. Three mistakes mean death. People have recovered from their mistakes, but the problem is that when the situation deteriorates, most people do not know when they are in over their head until it is too late. I looked toward the hidden sun and knew I was in trouble. I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going; at least I had rented a cabin, so the Forest Service would know, but they wouldn’t check until I was missed. I would have to figure out how to survive for four days in the freezing cold and hope that someone at work would miss me.
All that was in the future. Right now, I could still make it to the cabin. The first snowflake fell in front of me – drifted really, big and wet, like a white rose petal turned to intricate lace. Its slow motion descent showed off its six sided beauty. I had to get moving; I could appreciate snowflakes when I get to the cabin.
The thing that people do not appreciate about snowfall is that it seems to quiet everything. The very presence of falling snow seems to raise a sound dampening curtain. You can hear the twigs under your feet, but other than that the earth begins to get covered in white, beautiful silence. I was moving double time with my pack bouncing at my back. My mind flashed back to others who had gone into Alaska and not returned. Most of the time, they just made poor choices and each poor choice compounded the original problem until survival was no longer a possibility. The snow fell more heavily, and I had a feeling that I might be the next casualty of the killer that Alaska could be.
My mind went through my supplies and my resources. There were probably two more hours of light left though I had left my phone in the car so I wasn’t entirely sure about the time. I could build a snow cave. I had food for four days. I had brought a small amount of firewood but had hoped to be able to find some at the cabin since carrying it was heavy and space consuming. I had my GPS.
This thought should have lightened my load immeasurably, but I knew that the GPS could only work if it get satellite signals, and the cloud cover had that bluish gray look that normally meant no signal would get through. I also didn’t have very good maps of the area. I really just used the GPS to geocache. It was for playing a game, and now the game was getting serious. I decided to conserve the battery energy as much as possible. The compass wouldn’t necessarily do any good because there were at least two sizable hills between here and the cabin – going over them would take hours rather than the several minutes to go around them. That turn had to be around here somewhere.
The clouds became thicker. The air became colder. The snowflakes went from pleasantly large to tiny – I had always been amazed at how quickly the tiny snowflakes seemed to bond together. How could something so small and delicate be dangerous? I caught one on my tongue. Lucy might have been right about December snowflakes – this snowflake was certainly tasty. But I didn’t have time to be catching snowflakes; I need to get back home. I mean I. Why can’t I focus? I stamped my feet and jumped up and down. I could feel the sweat drip down my back. I would be fine, I just needed to get to the cabin. I pulled out my GPS. I would have to sacrifice flatland and ease for a straight line. I could only hope that I could get a signal. It wouldn’t even need to be that accurate.
The snow falls so hard that the ground is difficult to see. The flakes catch on my nose and eyelashes; yet, I am pretty sure that this is not one of my favorite things, at least not right now. When I get back home, I will have a heck of a story. The death arrow, I chuckle at the geocaching humor and how it applies to the situation now, points to my left. One foot in front of the other. I start counting steps. One, two, three… 55, 56, 57… 100, 101, 102… all the way to 1,000. Then I tell myself that a thousand more will get me where I need to be and I count again. I do this four or five times. The terrain steep under my feet until the bottom drops out and I tumble forward. “Yard Sale” screams through my mind as I lose my pack and snow gets everywhere that it shouldn’t. My feet are now wet. It is time to call this adventure off, and I can’t. I hit something hard and come to a stop wondering how many Devil’s Club plants I rolled over. I brush the ice off of my eyelashes to open my eyes. It doesn’t matter. A swirling mass of white in the air makes it impossible to see where my pack is.
I only have one hope… I only have one hope… If I just rest a little bit… I will remember what that hope is… Why are my eyelids so heavy? One mistake is fine; it’s the second one that kills you…
Four guys hanging out in the same cabin for a weekend led to questionable decisions like the manliness games that usually involved running around the cabin and throwing ice balls at each other. When we were short of firewood or just looking for something constructive and destructive to do. Firewood can be used by anyone and in the Alaskan wilderness leaving firewood at a cabin could literally save someone’s life. However, it still takes chopping up a dead tree unless you don’t have an axe. Then you need to try something else.
The Weekend of Manliness went the way of other traditions that men will participate in for a time. Anyone who would participate ended up getting married, moving away, having children and a host of other excuses until it didn’t make sense to organize what used to be one of the best events of the year. It just made more sense for the two of us that were left to order take and bake pizzas and watch BSG or some insanely terrible movie – it was another form of male bonding that didn’t involve braving the elements or being cold, plus pizza.
Still, as I got older, I longed for the weekend to make its return. I longed for the ability to be away from my computer, to be out of cell phone range and to experience the great outdoors in a way that only Alaskan winter could deliver. Sure, there was a good chance that I could end up with frostbite, hypothermia or dead, but on the positive side, the chances of getting eaten by a bear were extremely tiny.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the band back together again, so I decided to make the first mistake, and one that only a cheechako would make, I decided to go to a cabin by myself. Traveling the Alaskan wilderness alone, even in the best of weather is a chump move. You should always travel with someone else – if for no other reason than that person may be able to help you out of a jam. But this was to be the Weekend of Manliness – I was harkening back to my imagined roots of strength and outdoorsiness, and I had a book I was planning to finish reading.
So I headed out in my rental car. It was morning, and there was a Winter Storm Warning, but I was dressed warmly enough. I figured I could beat the storm and have coffee on the stove by sundown. The cabin would only be about 3 miles from the parking area. My second mistake made, I got to the parking area and headed out.
The going was beautiful. The sun was rising the snow was glistening. The cold was brisk and bracing. All in all, I could tell this was going to be the best weekend alone that I could hope to imagine. The going was slow because the paths were covered in powder. To be truthful, I was a bit out of shape, and my pack was heavier than I expected. Still I trudged on following what I thought was the direction I should go. About halfway through my hike, I realized that I was heading down the wrong path. I realized this because it had been two hours and I hadn’t reached the cabin yet. The snow wasn’t that deep, and I couldn’t have been that out of shape.
I pulled out my map realized where I made the error and instead of going back the way I came, I made my third mistake. I decided to continue on. The turn to the cabin was just up ahead I was sure. After drinking some water, I started forward while chewing on some teriyaki jerky.
After another hour and no sign of the turn I was supposed to take, the clouds rolled over the sun, and the terrain became grey. My mistakes had caught up with me. I knew making one mistake in Alaska could be overcome. Making two mistakes usually meant real pain. Three mistakes mean death. People have recovered from their mistakes, but the problem is that when the situation deteriorates, most people do not know when they are in over their head until it is too late. I looked toward the hidden sun and knew I was in trouble. I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going; at least I had rented a cabin, so the Forest Service would know, but they wouldn’t check until I was missed. I would have to figure out how to survive for four days in the freezing cold and hope that someone at work would miss me.
All that was in the future. Right now, I could still make it to the cabin. The first snowflake fell in front of me – drifted really, big and wet, like a white rose petal turned to intricate lace. Its slow motion descent showed off its six sided beauty. I had to get moving; I could appreciate snowflakes when I get to the cabin.
The thing that people do not appreciate about snowfall is that it seems to quiet everything. The very presence of falling snow seems to raise a sound dampening curtain. You can hear the twigs under your feet, but other than that the earth begins to get covered in white, beautiful silence. I was moving double time with my pack bouncing at my back. My mind flashed back to others who had gone into Alaska and not returned. Most of the time, they just made poor choices and each poor choice compounded the original problem until survival was no longer a possibility. The snow fell more heavily, and I had a feeling that I might be the next casualty of the killer that Alaska could be.
My mind went through my supplies and my resources. There were probably two more hours of light left though I had left my phone in the car so I wasn’t entirely sure about the time. I could build a snow cave. I had food for four days. I had brought a small amount of firewood but had hoped to be able to find some at the cabin since carrying it was heavy and space consuming. I had my GPS.
This thought should have lightened my load immeasurably, but I knew that the GPS could only work if it get satellite signals, and the cloud cover had that bluish gray look that normally meant no signal would get through. I also didn’t have very good maps of the area. I really just used the GPS to geocache. It was for playing a game, and now the game was getting serious. I decided to conserve the battery energy as much as possible. The compass wouldn’t necessarily do any good because there were at least two sizable hills between here and the cabin – going over them would take hours rather than the several minutes to go around them. That turn had to be around here somewhere.
The clouds became thicker. The air became colder. The snowflakes went from pleasantly large to tiny – I had always been amazed at how quickly the tiny snowflakes seemed to bond together. How could something so small and delicate be dangerous? I caught one on my tongue. Lucy might have been right about December snowflakes – this snowflake was certainly tasty. But I didn’t have time to be catching snowflakes; I need to get back home. I mean I. Why can’t I focus? I stamped my feet and jumped up and down. I could feel the sweat drip down my back. I would be fine, I just needed to get to the cabin. I pulled out my GPS. I would have to sacrifice flatland and ease for a straight line. I could only hope that I could get a signal. It wouldn’t even need to be that accurate.
The snow falls so hard that the ground is difficult to see. The flakes catch on my nose and eyelashes; yet, I am pretty sure that this is not one of my favorite things, at least not right now. When I get back home, I will have a heck of a story. The death arrow, I chuckle at the geocaching humor and how it applies to the situation now, points to my left. One foot in front of the other. I start counting steps. One, two, three… 55, 56, 57… 100, 101, 102… all the way to 1,000. Then I tell myself that a thousand more will get me where I need to be and I count again. I do this four or five times. The terrain steep under my feet until the bottom drops out and I tumble forward. “Yard Sale” screams through my mind as I lose my pack and snow gets everywhere that it shouldn’t. My feet are now wet. It is time to call this adventure off, and I can’t. I hit something hard and come to a stop wondering how many Devil’s Club plants I rolled over. I brush the ice off of my eyelashes to open my eyes. It doesn’t matter. A swirling mass of white in the air makes it impossible to see where my pack is.
I only have one hope… I only have one hope… If I just rest a little bit… I will remember what that hope is… Why are my eyelids so heavy? One mistake is fine; it’s the second one that kills you…