Winning the Cold War
How to Not Die of Hypothermia
With the New Model Climate turning autumn into spring, it’s easy to forget how quickly the weather can turn. But don’t be fooled. An ancient killer still lurks in the hills and waters of Canoe Country. The name of this baleful beast? In an article that originally appeared in 2005, Tamia reveals the chilling answer.
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by Tamia Nelson | November 3, 2017
Originally published in different form on January 11, 2005
It attacks the unwitting, the unwary, and the unprepared. It stalks its prey in all seasons of the year. It can strike during a summer picnic on Golden Pond, in the middle of a rough open-water crossing in November, or while traversing the Grand Portage in a swirling spring drizzle. And it waits patiently in any water cool enough not to feel comfortably warm. Many of its victims never see home again.
What is this stealthy killer’s name? Hypothermia, that’s what, and it’s every bit as deadly as drowning. Know your enemy. That’s always good advice. So let’s take a closer look at …
The Big Chill
The human body isn’t a heat engine in the strictest sense, but it generates heat, and our vital organs are happiest when the temperature of their immediate environment — our bodies — stays within a narrow range centered on 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. If your vital bits get too hot, the result is heat stroke. And if they get too cold? Then you’ve fallen prey to hypothermia. Since it’s easier to get chilled to the bone when you’re outside in the weather than when you’re sitting indoors by the fireplace, hypothermia was once known as “exposure.” But the truth of the matter is that men and women die of hypothermia in their homes every year, so the newer label is more accurate, even if it is less evocative. Whatever name you favor, though, the takeaway message is unmistakable: Cold can kill.
And as the old name makes clear, your risk of chilling out for good increases with your exposure to the elements. Anyone who lives, works, or plays in the out-of-doors is vulnerable, and paddlers are no exception. Indeed, they’re in more danger than most. Long after the vernal equinox, winter’s chill lingers in the rivers and lakes, and there’s also the problem of wet clothing. Air — dry, still air, that is — insulates and protects, but any water that’s colder than your body just wicks heat away. It doesn’t matter whether you are in the water, or the water is in your clothes. It’s a one-two punch either way, and it hits hard. For a few hapless paddlers every year, the first unplanned swim of the season is their last. Ever. Yet cold water isn’t the only silent killer. Moving air can also chill. So can rain. (After all, rain is water, isn’t it? Good raingear is essential.) The moral of the story is simple. Cold. Rain. Wind. Cold water. If this Gang of Four ever comes after you, and sooner or later it will, you’re in for the fight of your life, because …
No Paddler is Immune from Hypothermia
Here’s a case in point. The scene: The hamlet of North River, New York, where the Upper Hudson River breaks free of the Gorge. This is the first Saturday in May. Whitewater Derby weekend. It’s sunny and warm, with just a hint of a breeze. Spring is definitely in the air. But spring in the mountains isn’t the same as spring in the city. Snow still lingers in the shadowed folds between the peaks, and the Hudson is running high and cold, well above the Mouse’s Tail. It’s a great day for the slalom, and spectators — 10,000 of them by one estimate, but who’s counting? — are in a party mood. Most are wearing jeans and T-shirts.
The competitors are feeling pretty good, too. One of them — we’ll call him John, shall we? — is paddling OC-1 for the first time. His partner cancelled at the last minute. But John’s no timid beginner. He’s been canoeing and kayaking for a couple of decades now, and while he isn’t what the hacks call a “serious competitor,” he takes the race seriously. Not seriously enough, however. He’s in a party mood himself. In fact, he’s breakfasted on beer. And like most of the spectators, he’s bewitched by the soft spring weather. He’s wearing jeans, with only a T-shirt under his life jacket.
Out of the gate, John is in his element, and things are looking mighty good. But though the slalom is a short race in relatively easy water, there are plenty of places in the course where you only get one chance to do it right. And at Perry Eller rapids, John loses the beat, drifting too far to the left, into the middle of the really big stuff. A breaking wave dumps its load over the gunwale. Then another wave dumps a second load. Suddenly it’s swim time. The first shock of the freezing water puts an immediate end to all thoughts of spring. It was May on the bank, but it’s December in the river. Luckily, John is fished out of the water in a minute or two. Once on shore, though, he discovers that he can’t close his hands or get his fingers to work. To make matters worse, he’s shaking so badly that he has trouble walking. Strangers offer to carry John’s boat back to his van. Afterward, they hang around to help him open his thermos and change into dry clothes. They don’t leave till they see him tying his shoes.
Four hours later, John’s on the Northway, heading home. He notices that his hands are still trembling, just a little, and he turns up the heater. After a while, the trembling stops.
Happy ending? Yes and no. John made it out of the river and back home, but after only a couple of minutes in cold water his survival depended entirely on the kindness of strangers. What if he’d been alone? There’d have been no happy ending then. The irony isn’t lost on John. Neither are the lessons of that day in North River. He made a lot of mistakes. To begin with, he thought he was immune. Exempt. In control. He could have quoted whole paragraphs from books about the dangers of hypothermia, but he didn’t think they applied to him, and certainly not on a beautiful, warm spring morning. So he dressed like a spectator instead of a competitor. And his beer breakfast didn’t help much, either. It blunted the sharp edge of his intellect, slowed his reaction time, and sent warm blood rushing to his skin, far from his vital organs.
Sound pretty stupid? It was. And stupid is something no paddler can afford to be. The good news?
It’s Easy to be Smart
No, your body’s not a heat engine. Not in the physics textbook sense, anyway. But it sometimes helps to think of it as one. After all, it’s a cold world. And when your engine gets too cold, it stops. Dead. This is not good. To keep everything turning over smoothly, though, you only need to do two things:
- Feed your fire regularly
- Insulate the firebox
Simple, eh? Snack often whenever you’re on the move. Calorie-rich energy bars are good, as is dried fruit. Drink frequently, too. Dehydration isn’t just a warm-weather problem. A thermos of something hot and sweet is always welcome on a cold day. No booze, however. And no beer or wine, either. Save these for camp, when you’re warm, dry, and lazy — and confident you’ll stay that way for a while.
It’s not enough to feed the fire, of course. However much you shovel into your cakehole, you can’t afford to heat the whole watery world. So dress to keep the cold out and the heat in. Remember what happened to John. And don’t forget that our New Model Climate can make November feel like May. Don’t be fooled. It may feel like a spring day on shore, but it’s November in the water. If you need convincing, get an armored stream thermometer and use it. Save your jeans, cotton sweatshirts, shorts, and T-shirts for the beach and the tropics. Old-timers often wear wool under a paddling jacket when they’re on the water, though fleece has largely replaced wool in the wardrobes of modern paddlers, to the detriment of the world’s rivers, lakes, and oceans. But though wool and fleece are great in the mountains and on the portage trail, they’re a drag when you dump, and unless they’re sheathed in an impervious shell, they don’t offer a swimmer much protection from cold water. Which is why prudent paddlers often opt for a wetsuit or a drysuit. One oft-repeated guideline, the “120-degree rule,” suggests substituting rubber for wool whenever the sum of the water temperature and air temperature (in degrees Fahrenheit) is less than 120. But your stream thermometer is a far, far better guide. If the water temperature is less than 70 degrees Fahrenheit (21 degrees Celsius), rubberwear is your best fashion option. (After a life jacket, that is. You always wear a life jacket, don’t you?)
But that’s only part of the story. Exposure is a product of both time and temperature. Whatever the reading on the thermometer, the longer you spend in the water, the more heat you lose. So anytime you might find yourself swimming for more than a few minutes — and this means any open-water crossing, along with most sea-kayaking jaunts — wear a wetsuit or drysuit. Not all wetsuits are equal, obviously. A shorty is better than nothing, yet when the going gets tough, nothing beats a full-length Farmer John with a jacket. Protect your head and neck, as well. A watch cap or headover is enough when the water’s comparatively warm, but a neoprene hood isn’t too much in arctic conditions. The downside? It’s about as comfortable as a neck brace.
And what if you can’t stand the clammy, straitjacket feel of a wetsuit? A drysuit (plus wool or fleece undergarments) will do the same job, and do it better. For maximum protection, wear a drysuit over a wetsuit, and learn just how the Michelin man feels! On the other hand, even a small tear can put a drysuit out of action, something that can’t be said of wetsuits. As the name suggests, a wetsuit is designed to trap a thin film of water next to the skin. Moreover, drysuits tend to be pricier. Which is better? That’s between you and your credit card. But whichever you choose, be sure to cover your head and neck — and don’t neglect your other extremities, either. The temperature of your body core is what determines your survival time in the water, but you can’t do much without hands and feet, and these need to stay warm, too. Wetsuit booties are standard footwear for both whitewater boaters and sea kayakers. So far, so good. There’s no consensus about what to wear on your hands, though. Pogies, neoprene gloves, convertible mittens, even trapper’s waterproof gauntlets over wool gloves… Each has its champions. Experiment and see which you like best. Just wear something.
All of this gear will feel pretty restrictive, to be sure, and when you’re fully kitted out, you’ll find paddling very sweaty work. There are also the attendant problems of stink, chafe, and rot. (There’s nothing like a wetsuit for growing fungi and foul odors, and for rubbing your tenderest bits raw.) This sometimes leads expert paddlers to throw caution to the winds. Many will agree with Derek Hutchinson’s plaint that no old hand should have to “paddle stinking, sweating, steaming and prickling in rubber equipment like an out-of-work frogman,” on the remote chance that he may have to “meet [a] freezing rescue” someday. But even old hands come to grief from time to time, and the only rule that makes sense for novice and expert alike is the familiar “Be prepared.” Rubberwear is often uncomfortable, but cold water kills. The choice is yours.
Still tempted to cut corners? At least take the personal equation into account. Some folks survive longer in cold water than others. Generally speaking, skinny people, tired people, children, and older paddlers have the hardest time staying warm — and the shortest life expectancy once they’ve dumped in chilly water. They need extra protection.
OK. Prevention is better than cure. But what can you do when prevention fails? After all, you don’t need to dump in a cold river to suffer hypothermia. It can strike at any time you’re losing heat faster than you’re generating it. And how will you recognize what’s wrong before it’s too late? How do you see …
The Smile of the Tiger …
Before he strikes? It’s not as easy as you might think, particularly if you’re by yourself. Hypothermia is a stealthy killer. One crisp autumn day, Farwell thought he’d go for a jog up a nearby hill. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Halfway up, he noticed he was tripping over his own feet a lot. Ten minutes later he was shivering. He didn’t have any extra clothing. By the time he stumbled down the hill, he couldn’t speak. He knew he was lucky, though. He could still walk.
It’s happened to me, too. Some years back, I had to stop to fix a flat on my bike. It wasn’t particularly cold or windy — 25 degrees Fahrenheit, more or less, with a gentle westerly breeze — and anyway I was hot. I’d been climbing steadily for nearly an hour. But by the time I got the wheel off the bike, my hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t hold the tire levers. Unlike Farwell, however, I was prepared. I had hot, sweet tea in my thermos, and a thick fleece pullover in my pannier. I put on the pullover and drank a cup of tea. When the shaking stopped, I fixed the flat and went on my way.
The upshot? If you need a jacket to be comfortable when you’re on land, or if you would have second thoughts about going for a short swim, hypothermia is a possibility. Check yourself — and your companions — often, and move your index of suspicion up a notch if you find yourself cursing your clumsiness, trying to remember where you put your hat (and finding it on your head), or simply feeling chilly. If you’re shivering, your suspicions are confirmed. You’re already in the beast’s claws. It’s time to fight back. If you’re on the water, head for shore. Get out of the wind. Towel off if you’re wet. Put on your warmest clothing. Have something hot to drink. Build a fire. And don’t delay. Don’t tell yourself that the beast will go away. It won’t. Minutes count.
Want to know more? Get a good book. (Medicine for Mountaineering is one of the best.) Take a wilderness medical course. Talk to a knowledgeable physician or other health worker. But don’t count on medical science to save you from the consequences of folly. Once the beast gets his hooks into your vitals, it’s too late for anything but the ICU, and you won’t find many of those in the backcountry. ‘Nuff said?
It happens every year. Whatever the season, folks head out on the water in T-shirts and jeans on the first balmy day. And every year there are more hypothermia fatalities. Don’t add your name to the list. Don’t become a silent statistic. Dress for the water temperature. Keep warm. Keep your head. And never, never doubt that cold can kill.
