The bluest National Geographic photograph had nothing on the color of Lake Michigan as we stared out across it from atop the frozen dunes of Northern Indiana. Through a thin cover of oak and pine scrub we saw the full spectrum, from the lunar landscape of ice at the shoreline to the ephemeral towers of Gary and Chicago on the Northwest horizon, like shreds of aluminum against the brightest winter sky. It was the morning of our overnight camping trip on the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, the desperate escape from urban constriction that I conceived earlier in the week and my girlfriend went along with, showing saintly patience. For the later I am fortunate because without her I would have ended up like a frozen burrito in my threadbare Coleman sleeping bag.
The day before leaving the city I got out of work early and bought supplies. Temperatures have been running in the low teens so I followed the advice of my harsh-weather camping book and bought specialty implements: two closed-cell foam sleeping mats and a folding iso-pro single-burner stove. The mats provide an insulation barrier between your body heat and the frozen ground, and the stove is nothing more than a glorified blowtorch that will boil water in any conditions. I was counting on these implements to survive the flesh-numbing Feburary wind that blows infamously off of the Great Lakes.
Andrea and I rode the South Shore train from downtown Chicago to Beverly Shores Indiana. We rolled through the industrial geometry of Gary and into the snowy woods beyond. Beverly Shores is a tiny vacation town filled with elaborate summer homes in various stages of construction. We walked past towers with bare tarpaper and flapping plastic on our way to the federally protected beachfront. We had frame backpacks loaded down with a tent, sleeping bags, and all of the gear we thought would keep us above freezing. Passing drivers shook their heads in dismay at our lack of common sense.
Between the dunes on which the town sat and a set of mirror-image ice dunes growing at the water’s foot was nestled the beach. Wind screamed over the ice and frozen sand like a slighted demon on its way to the smokestacks of distant Gary. Like every modern-day explorer, I wanted to get as far away from the civilization as possible. I was also paranoid, much to Andrea’s disdain, that we were heading into federally protected land where camping was illegal. I made this clear, and she made it clear that because the trip was my idea we would split any fines incurred seventy-thirty, with me on the business end. She happily considered it a done deal. I aimed to make sure we were hidden enough to avoid detection of any sort.
Eating is the best way to survive the cold. We brought enough food to facilitate constant consumption. Our packs contained Clif Bars, Power Bars, instant soup, trail mix, and fresh oranges.
We pitched our tent in a sheltered dune gully in front of a stunning sunset. It got dark fast. As we rolled out sleeping bags using headlamps and flashlights, I noticed an engine rumbling in the distance. Before I could make sense of it, the silence was ripped wide open by a helicopter blasting down the beach at tree level. Andrea protested as I shoved her into the tent. She ducked out, glaring indignantly into the face of a sweeping searchlight. The chopper was gone in a moment leaving me to worry about being spotted and her to berate me about my paranoid delusions.
The dark contrasted starkly with neon Chicago nights, unveiling stars that I had almost forgotten about. It was amazingly cold. We danced and climbed on the dunes to keep warm, singing cowboy songs and giggling nervously at the disapproving winter wind.
The only thing left to do was sleep. The sleeping bags zipped up like a big pita pocket. We pulled on multiple long-underwear and fleece layers, three pairs of wool socks, and it was still cold. I fired up the stove and made instant chili. The air chilled spoonfuls of boiling food to lukewarm before they reached our mouths. Ice was forming in the water bottles. We curled together for the promise of a long night.
Though layered in clothes and bedding, my feet never warmed to a comfortable temperature. As the cold set in, I came to accept that I would not be getting much sleep. I started feeling a reptile urge to stay warm at any cost, even if I had to battle Andrea for the warmest blankets. Around midnight I put our oranges inside of my sleeping bag to keep them from freezing. The night proceeded as a constant series of adjustments to maintain a tolerable temperature. We pressed together for heat and pushed away to get more comfortable. I pulled the sleeping bag and she yanked it back. All around the cold slipped in. Even as I snarled at the placement of her elbows I admired Andrea’s calm patience.
After shivering miserably for an eternity, morning came. Hot cereal was never as fulfilling. I stuck my arm out of the tent and fired the stove, melting snow to make tea as well as the instant oatmeal. The magnificent morning caught me off guard. I paused with my body sticking halfway out into the fresh air.
I was convinced I had frostbite. It felt like I had plastic six-pack rings around my toes, inside my three layers of wool socks. Stripping them off, I massaged feeling into dry white skin.
We packed up and trekked out of the dunes. The lake view was so nice that I forgave the night’s frigid offerings. Andrea commented on my mood swings, drawing loopy lines in the air with her finger. I just smiled and picked up the cowboy songs. The day was nice and my feet were warming up.
:: Ira
10:35 PM
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