Apparently if you build a cave in a mound of snow, it can get up to a toasty 30° F inside. Snowcaves they are called. That was Jeep’s selling point to get me to go snow camping with him this winter. Hmm, I’m disinclined to acquiesce.
Not that I’m unwilling to sleep outside. On each of our jaunts to Oregon, we “sneak camp,” usually sans a tent, in our cocoon sleeping bags – mine a fab bag from REI. Sometimes you can hear the semi trucks rumble past on I5 or owls hooting while on the hunt.
When Kobe and I drove to Montana last summer, I ventured to throw down the bags just north of Vegas about a mile into the desert. In the morning as we rolled up the bags and mats, a beige scorpion scrambled from under bag to the car. Part of the adventure, I shrugged.
No, it was memories of frozen toes and the burning thawing sensation as a kid skiing June Mountain and those pictures of Jeep and his best friend BJ snow camping with icicles hanging from eyebrows and beards that deterred me.
But sometimes life tricks you. Ever notice that?
Recently Jeep and I visited friends, Rue, Scott and Morgan in Sedona. I wanted to see Rue, aka Tipsy Kitty, play roller derby – even ordered a killer ensemble from Sock Dreams and wore my new t-shirt “Hit like a Girl, Play Derby” to cheer on the girls from Dirty Verde. But the bout was cancelled due to rain that never came – (their rink is outside). Instead, we ate scrumptiously and watched Planet Earth, before Jeep and I retired to our tent in their backyard. We woke to a surprising six inches of the most beautiful snow. Absolutely gorgeous to see white cresting the red rocks and clumped on pines.
Now, Jeep and BJ called that “snow camping” – even though the warm shower was just 10 feet away. And though I rather prefer to earn my stripes, this one I’ll take.