Drowning in Winter Cold

Drowning in Winter Cold

While growing up as a child, my father used the outdoors as a chalkboard for learning lessons on life and death. And nature in its most intimate moments of expression, became treasured possessions of “my life experience chest.” Dad used these teaching opportunities as sacred escapes, when I needed help to negotiate the typical authority conflict, a son can experience in his relationship with mom. 

From the beginning of my instruction, dad taught me to appreciate the value of an animal’s life. It was to be treated as sacred, and never misused needlessly.  However, he was quick to add, this principle did not necessarily apply, to gophers and crows!
 
The warm days of a late Indian Summer, passed with ease, and soon it was bird- hunting season, on one cold October morning.  On this significant day, it was my turn to stand on the stage, no longer being required to hunt in dad’s footsteps.  The reality of this truth became painfully clear, as the morning unfolded like a garment, unpacked in careful details, from a hope chest.

We were Pheasant hunting in the vast expanse of county farmland, with its unending gently rolling hills, for as far as the eye could see. The morning was crisp, the kind that makes you glad you have two pair of wool socks on, under your boots. The ground was also crunchy, from a night of hard freeze.  Into this world, I naively sauntered over a low hill, starting down a drunken fence-line toward a meandering stream, which wandered lazy through the knee-high frost covered grass.

Approaching a stream bed, I had my first face- to- face encounter with a plant called Watercress.  It presented like a thick mat in variation of greens; looking something like lettuce, carefully concealing the majority of the water from sight. Taking my first step, I plunged down to the bottom of the hidden stream bed, over my head by about a foot so. My rubber hunting boots immediately filled with frigid water. My initial gut reaction was to hold my shotgun high overhead, so it wouldn’t get wet.  It was a new gift and I treasured it like a valuable friend. With seconds clicking off the clock, one by one my thoughts unfolded in a mysterious way; almost as if they shifted into slow motion. Here, the reality of my predicament floated in and out of awareness, almost surreal.

The water was winter clear, as I opened my eyes and looked up at the partially veiled image of my shotgun, stiffly perched above my head. All the while the winter sun was shining as a morning backdrop through the Birch trees, aligning themselves in loyalty, with an ‘S’ curved stream.

Startled, a sense of immediacy finally hit me. I lunged from the bottom of the streambed, straight up into the air overhead.  Cracking through the water’s grasp glaze of ice, with a youthful gasp for air, I cried out for help as loud as the panic in my voice would allow. 

Dad taught me the story about the ‘boy who cried wolf’ in earlier life lessons. To the contrary, this was every bit of a serious plea.  I remember thinking, “will anyone hear me?” With the second lunge up through the water, I repeated my yell, “help.”  In the distance, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted dad running down the hill toward me. He was yelling something as he ran, but it was a blur to my ears.  While readying myself for a third lunge for air, a strong arm grabbed me by the back of the coat collar, plucking me from the grip of the thin iced pool of water. 

Here, everything became a daze; it seemed like time for the whole event, passed before my eyes in a fraction of a second.  Although the detail escapes me, dad told me, the first words out of my mouth where, “is my shotgun okay?”

I didn’t realize that my education in survival was just getting off the ground. Time began to return to a normal rhythm in my mind, and the first thing it announced was; I was freezing cold! Apparently, my reaction and panic prompted me, to talk fast and loud. Matching my conversation’s cadence, I attempted to rip off the crisp chilled wet clothes. Dad grabbed me and wrapped me in his arms, shouting, “You’re okay son, do not panic; what you are feeling is normal, don’t be afraid.” It is funny how fear distorts the ability to reason. What on earth was I going to do, strip naked and walk around the frozen field, like a big rooster in the barnyard?

With some coaxing, my mentor calmed me down enough to take off my outer apparel and empty the water from my hunting boots. Dad then wrapped his coat around me saying, “We must run back to the car quickly.” It seemed like we ran forever, but oh what a welcome site, that green Plymouth station wagon was, sitting on a tractor trail at the base of distant hills.  With its heater churning high, piece by piece, my clothes began to dry.

My father's green Plymouth station wagon remained my favourite car for a good portion of my childhood. I didn’t shoot any birds that cold fall day, but I sure got a life lesson, on how large a dad looms in a boy’s eyes. Interestingly, it wouldn't be the only time dad would save my life.