Words and Photos by Peter Gierlach, @Pete Gierlach
Looking out the window, I had absolutely zero reason to step outside.
It was pitch black, a presumably starry sky blocked by thick layers of clouds that began paying rent last month and haven't left since. I could feel their weight on my shoulders, pushing me downwards into a slow, lethargic state.
The outdoor thermometer was less than motivating: it read a balmy five degrees. What it didn't take into account, though, were the high winds ripping through the area and swaying the trees with such force that made me, for the first time, look back at my homeowner's insurance policy.
And yet, bundled up and holding a warm cup of coffee on the other side of my thick glove, I ventured out into the dark tundra, started the car (which was also highly unwilling to start its day), and headed north.
This was my treatment. And I couldn't deny it.
Winter tends to hit me pretty hard.
While I enjoy the season, it tends to wear out its welcome for me about halfway through January. There are parts of it I love and look forward to every year. For example, I often crave cozy evenings by the fire with warm food coming out of the oven, wafting incredible scents throughout our home. There is a specialness to the sense of being pushed indoors by Mother Nature this time of year that I appreciate. It is a time to rest, catch up on sleep, and rejuvenate before the sweet smell of springtime and the long nights of summer arrive.
However, without a strong need to get outside, the endless cold, gray days take their toll. Perhaps if I were a skier or snowboarder constantly chasing fresh powder, I'd have a different perspective. But after nearly popping my knees and cracking my ass in a beginner snowboarding lesson around my 30th birthday, I realized that ship had sailed long ago when my body was more pliable.
And so, after weeks inside, my cabin fever was reaching its height. I knew I needed to suck it up and get out - somehow, some way.
The reality is that life is more fulfilling when we experience its poles. Community is more appreciated after we've experienced isolation. Routine is a welcomed comfort after a period of rapid change. And coziness is far more immersive after time spent out in the elements, thrashing our body about in discomfort.
With this in mind, I knew there could be only one cure for my cabin fever.
I called up my friend Troy and pitched my plan:
"Let's wake up before dawn to head up to Buck Mountain and snowshoe to the summit. It's going to be freezing cold–even worse with wind chill–and I have no idea how the trail is (or if it even exists at this point). We'll be miserable. But I'm bringing Pad Thai in a bag, so it'll be worth it."
Troy, ever the great friend, agreed.
As soon as we reached the trailhead, I began regretting my decision. It was colder up north, and the wind ripped right through my layers. Putting on the snowshoes, which required taking the gloves off for a few minutes, led to cold, puffy fingers before we even crossed into the wilderness.
"I could be just getting out of bed," I thought, completely forgetting that my discontent arose from doing just that over and over for the past few months.
The initial part of the hike was strictly about warming up. Trudging through the wilderness on snowshoes is a unique feeling. It takes more effort, which was essential for us at the start, but eventually, the movement becomes a meditative glide through the woods. Not quite skiing, but not quite hiking - a liminal space that focuses the mind and promotes immersion in the environment.
Once our core temperature returned to normal, I was able to appreciate the beauty of the landscape. There were about four feet of snowpack, and the spruce trees looked like they came straight out of a Dr. Seuss story with the way their branches bent under the weight of snow that never reached their final destination.
We were alone here; the only sounds coming from the crunching of snow beneath our feet and the heavy breaths being let out as the incline increased. After months of being holed up in my house, the difference between my daily routine and the world I was exploring here was stark and all the more magical.
Don't get me wrong: normal life is beautiful. It is filled with meaningful work and deep relationships, both of which take immense amounts of time and effort to develop. In a life of constant motion, it's near impossible to live deeply with others.
But, as humans, we are wanderers, explorers, built for adventure–it's in our DNA. While the familiarity and beauty of routine life are necessary, it can't be all there is. Something deep inside us years to peer over the horizon, explore around the next corner and breathe the air in a different part of the globe. We'd rather know it's nothing than miss out on something.
Without both of these worlds–the familiar and the novel–life is incomplete.
After a hard-fought ascent, we saw something unfamiliar on the horizon above us:
Blue.
Stoked, I started trotting up the rest of the mountain. The summit was preceded by massive boulders that narrowed the trail up to the bald summit. As soon as I stepped on top of the last boulder, a blast of wind punched me in the face after it raced unimpeded across Lake George.
It was freezing. My skin tightened. My balance faltered. The sun, which I forgot about after weeks of grayness, glared against the snow and ice.
In that moment, I felt alive in a way I hadn't in quite some time.
Our time on the summit only lasted about ten minutes before the chill became too much to handle. We huddled behind the boulders to find shelter from the wind and to cook the essential Pad Thai.
After a few minutes of watching me fumble with numbing fingers, Troy began making his descent in order to warm up again. As quickly as I could, I poured the boiling water into the envelope, sealed up my REpack, and began racing after him. Essentially skiing down the mountain, I reached a state of flow among the ancient boulders and Seuss trees.
Troy and I reconvened about two-thirds of the way down the mountain. Once again warm, I pulled out the REpack and took the first bites of freshly hydrated Pad Thai, still piping hot. After dozens of meals in my home, something about eating freeze-dried noodles with freeze-dried fingers hit differently. The sheer novelty of the situation was enough to fill my heart with joy and our conversation with laughter as the sun peeked through the birch trees and warmed our bare hands.
I can't remember many meals from the previous few months. But I'm sure I'll remember this one for years to come.
Sharing is caring.
When I returned home, my wife surprised me with homemade chicken noodle soup and the moistest carrot cake I've ever eaten. As I took inspiration from my tea bag and steeped myself deep into my favorite chair, it hit me how much more I appreciated my former cage now that I had been outside of it for a while. The winter wind brought extra warmth to the fire in front of me; the slippers a nice, comforting reprieve from the frozen toes stuffed into frozen boots jammed into frozen snowshoes.
The cure for cabin fever appears to be simple: mustering the strength to push back against the inertia and venturing out into the elements anyway. It is the only elixir–there is no other way.
Soon enough, I will be floating in a crystal clear lake on a hot summer day, surrounded by the laughter of friends and smelling the nearby campfires that waft their smoke over my placid body. That will be delightful.
But for now, in the depths of winter, this warm little home stuck inside a frozen snow globe will work just fine.
