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13 | (continued) If you’ve ever been in the woods after a heavy snowfall, you’ve probably seen broad pillows of accumulated snow sliding off conifer boughs and plunging onto the ground. You must never underestimate the weight and impact of these falls. It often happens that a slide will begin near the top of a tall conifer and trigger a whole series of falls all the way down through the branches. This can shake loose an amazing amount of snow, which may be damp and heavy—hundreds of pounds of it on occasion. When it hits the ground (usually all at once) it can easily collapse a tent, extinguish a campfire, or dislocate a joint or two in an unsuspecting camper, not to mention striking terror in the hearts of all concerned if it happens late at night. And yes, a number of people have died over the years from just such a cause. Most of these deaths occurred in the western forests, to inexperienced people trapped in heavy canvas tents, under tall, heavily-laden trees. When they were suddenly buried under many hundreds of pounds of snow, they were often unable to move, and couldn’t cut through the tent fabric to escape. They would have quickly suffocated. The rule therefore is: never camp directly beneath conifers, whenever snow has accumulated on them, or may do so, unless you’re prepared to move your camp in a hell of a hurry when it starts to snow—not much fun even during the day; a memorable agony on a snowy night. Another unexpected inconvenience of winter camping is frost-heave. When I set up the second camp in late summer, the exact site I chose for the tent was a low mound, rising about six inches above the floor of the forest, a gentle elevation that seemed ideal for draining off rainwater in all directions. For several months, it did this quite well, but I hadn’t expected what that mound was likely to become, once it was frozen to a depth of several inches. I knew what frost-heave was, but I failed to realize that it occurs to some extent throughout the regions of sub-zero temperature, and is of course especially noticeable where the surface is already prepared for it—where it is irregular to begin with. In other words, a mound, even such a low one as I had chosen, having probably been caused by frost-heave in the first place, will continue to rise—several inches by mid-winter—with a force that no sleeping body, however heavy, can hope to resist. A genuine Force of Nature it is, and one merely learns to live with it, or one moves one’s tent. It did not help things at all that in furnishing the tent, I had lain the blankets and foam pad directly along the subtle ridge-line of the mound, thus raising it artificially by a good inch or two. By the time the frost had done its work, the bulge was at least four inches higher than it had originally been, and I found it increasingly difficult to lie comfortably on its surface, or to tolerate the consequent shrinkage of my sleeping chamber. Added to the overall blessings of winter, the slow reshaping of my little home made me long for the inevitable eviction.
So, take note: if you plan to bed down for a good long stay, when freeze-up is approaching, prepare yourself for the likelihood that the surface beneath your body will adjust itself according to the laws of physics, not the ethics of tourism. Choose, or create, if you can, an area thick with pine needles, which will tend to insulate the ground, and reduce, or soften, the powerful expansion of the upper layer of the soil, which is the essence of the whole phenomenon. A second alternative, excellent in its own way, will probably appall you at first—but hear it out: the perfectly flat surface of a solidly frozen shallow pond is guaranteed to remain level month after month, until Spring Thaw. If this sounds a trifle loony, think about the physics of it for a moment: what you’d be lying on is a massive slab of crystallized water, which is certain to remain as hard (well, almost) as the Pre-Cambrian Shield that supports us all, as long as the temperature stays well below freezing. It could support a main battle tank, if necessary. Notice that I specify a solidly frozen shallow pond, which means that its depth must not exceed a foot or two, with little or no mud or water at its bottom. On the night of my Panic, given the temperature, the thickness of my supporting ice could easily have been more than two feet. I can assure you that you will never be troubled by the slightest frost-heave on such a platform. Its smooth surface even eases snow-removal around the tent, if that becomes necessary. |
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