One thing that I've learned about being cold is that you reach a point where you just can't put on enough clothes to help. You must move. The only thing possible in a small RV is doing push-ups. I tried that, and with good results. Normally I use closed-cell foam pads underneath my hands for comfort's sake; on this minus 2 F morning, the foam took on a compression-set that recorded an impression of my wrists and palms.
I couldn't do push-ups for the next five hours until sunrise, so I popped Lawrence of Arabia into the DVD player, hoping that the desert scenery would warm me up, at least psychologically. It didn't work.
There was only one more card to play: going into the campground's shower room and taking a 30 minute, scalding hot shower at their expense. But this seemed unsporting and unmanly, so I declined.
What is the appeal of "cold survival" stories? Is it in our DNA? It has been a big part of living for much of the history of our species. Recently I watched the Imax version of the Mt. Everest disaster, circa 1990. Recall, that is the disaster that Jon Krakauer wrote about in Into Thin Air. The survival story of Beck Weathers is hard to top.
There have been other great stories over the years: Jack London's tales of Alaska; the Ice House in Dr. Zhivago; the book and movie, Alive; Robert Falcon Scott's diary as he froze to death in Antarctica; and of course Richard Byrd's Alone.
Besides what is general to our species, I wondered if my sucker-hood for cold survival stories was due to more individual hang-ups. I do remember walking home for about a mile, into a fiercely cold west wind, when I was about 10. After finally reaching home I went to the bedroom, lied down, and began shivering uncontrollably. Most children are familiar with shivering, but only when they have the flu. This was something different. I remember getting no sympathy from my family, which surprised and disappointed me.
A child can have scary and solitary thoughts with an experience like this. Inside the house, all is routine and safe. But just outside the window glass, it was still a dangerous world; one without Modernity, Safety, and Comfort; an alternate Reality and an ancient one.
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Makes me think of the many birds feeding their young that I have watched over the years. The youngsters eventually grow so big that they are only slightly smaller than their parent, yet they wait for the parent to bring the food, quiver their wings and beg without end. One day the parent simply doesn't show up anymore and that is what it takes for the youngster to start taking care of himself.
Which is not meant to discount or belittle in any way your feelings of disappointment. If you had been 5 years old instead of 10, I think their reaction would have been quite different. But you really didn't need their help and you proved it when you got home on your own.
I think such experiences are necessary to develop character.