Irv Oslin: Nothing quite says morning like hot coffee and a cold wetsuit
As I morphed into a soft-shelled Matryoshka doll — i.e. crawled into my sleeping bag inside a sleeping bag inside a sleeping bag — I heard what sounded like sand pattering on the rainfly of the tent. I knew it wasn’t the sandman coming to pay a visit; it was the weatherman chortling.
Previous column: Irv Oslin: Winter canoe tripping — finding aid and comfort along the river
The forecast called for light snow flurries on the first night of our three-day canoe trip. We got freezing drizzle instead.
Curtis Casto and I had picked our weather window carefully. That’s important when planning a winter canoe trip. Snow is fine, even fairly large amounts of it. Rain never is. Not with temperatures in the 30s and 40s. Or the 50s for that matter.
Nonetheless, I counted my blessings. At least it had waited to rain until we were snug inside our tents.
It didn’t occur to me at the moment that I had left my wetsuit draped over a limb, turned inside out to dry. Not that it would have mattered. Better to stay warm and dry inside the tent and deal with it in the morning.
Wetsuit looked like a glazed innertube
As I ventured out into the morning frost to brew a pot of coffee, I noticed the wetsuit hanging there, encased in ice. It looked like a glazed innertube.
“Oh boy,” I said to myself. (Or something to that effect.) “Now I have something to look forward to — that exhilarating feeling of squeezing into a frosty wetsuit!”
There’s only so much exhilaration a man can handle, so I decided to melt the ice off my wetsuit. I raked the embers from last night’s campfire into a pile and gathered kindling. Lots of it. When your firewood is soaked and coated with ice, you need plenty of kindling.
By and by Curtis emerged from his tent and asked, “What’s for breakfast?”
I pointed to the wetsuit draped over a chair in front of the fire and said, “Coffee and glazed innertubes.”
I think he would have preferred that to what I had in store — freeze-dried biscuits and gravy. Curtis didn’t say anything but I got the feeling he wasn’t impressed with the menu. He volunteered to take responsibility for breakfast on future canoe trips.
Breakfast Skillet doesn't conjure impressions of Denny’s or Bob Evans
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that — on the following morning — he could look forward to a freeze-dried delicacy called Breakfast Skillet. The name might conjure impressions of Denny’s or Bob Evans, but Breakfast Skillet doesn’t quite stack up to the corporate restaurant breakfast fare. Somehow, it’s just not the same when it isn’t served by a waitress with a southern accent who calls you honey.
(Of course they don’t really mean it but, at my age, you take your terms of endearment where you can get them.)
At least the precipitation was done for the weekend. We had two days of good weather to look forward to — along with perfect river conditions. And the prospect of gas station coffee delivered to our next campsite.
To be continued.
This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Oslin: Nothing quite says morning like hot coffee and a cold wetsuit
