The sole exception to the silence was snow painfully squealing beneath ten pairs of Vasques. We were a freight train huffing into an ominous gale, plumes of breath curling into the bulging clouds above our Keltys. I was no longer concerned with the mucus persistently trickling from my nostrils, instead allowing it to freeze on my upper lip. I could no longer afford the energy it took to repetitively wipe it away. The temperature struggled to clamber above a mere 15 degrees in the Uinta Basin in January. Today was no exception. Frost glimmered in the hair of my peers and lined our bulky coats. We had been hiking a two-track road for the majority of the day in the hopes of reaching camp before night fell. We were beginning to realize that this would not be feasible tonight, as it seemed to be around 4:00. Spirits hung low and heavy among us.

 I had seen the group dynamic shift many times since my arrival nine weeks ago. However, nothing I had experienced had reached such a defeated point. I blamed it on the frigid weather. The constant threat of frostbite lingered day and night. I had purple and red blotches extending down the length of my thighs from the cold. They were numb to the touch and felt strange when I walked. To occupy my mind from the current reality, I began to entertain my favorite daydream: taking a shower. I had not fully bathed in well over two months. We were allowed two opportunities to bathe in a week. This involved dipping a washcloth in ashy water and scrubbing for 10 minutes. These baths warded away the smell for a day before it came meandering back. My peers and I would harvest sage straight from the bushel and tuck it into our sleeping bags and clothes to counter the stench. 

I was snapped away from my thoughts as someone yelled,“Hold point!” The squeaking of snow ceased immediately. I unclipped my bottle of Gatorade from my pack while several people ducked behind trees to use the restroom. Once we had regrouped, one of the staff members began to speak. “We are getting pretty close to camp. Just a few more hills, and we should be there. It’s looking like some snow is coming our way, so we’ll get started with dinner soon and clean up as we go,” she stated authoritatively. As we resumed hiking, I peered at the hills ahead. They were blurred with the onset of a snowstorm. Only minutes later, a blustery gale brought the first flakes swirling around us. I gritted my teeth and shifted my pack on my shoulders. We trudged into camp with our heads lowered and our hoods pulled taut against our necks. The process of assembling our supplies commenced promptly. I carried our water tanks and food bags into the central area. At this particular site, there was a changing tent and a propane camping stove covered by a tarp. I smiled at the sight of the stove. I considered it to be a privilege, since we cooked our meals over a fire typically. I discerned the two girls on cooking duty discussing our options for dinner as they rooted through bags. “We can’t do mac n cheese … no more cheese … nope, no chili either … I think we ran out of garlic powder yesterday …” I heard them muttering to one another. We were low on options, since we were nearing the end of a supply interval. 

The staff rounded up everyone who was not cooking to set up our sleeping bags in the shelter. We hefted our packs onto our shoulders once again and marched a quarter mile into a clearing. The shelter was pitched adjacent to the tree line and the evening shadows partially obscured it from view. It was a sizable canvas tent with two cylindrical smokestacks jutting from either side of the roof. Upon entry, there was a breezeway that branched into two sections. I entered one and laid my yoga mats down on the dirt floor. We were supplied with two yoga mats in the winter for the extra warmth, on top of a sleeping bag that could withstand temperatures up to negative 20 degrees. We gathered in the vestibule after we had all finished and headed back for dinner. 

When we arrived, the cooks had prepared an unusual mixture of rice with tomato sauce and zucchini. I heartily inhaled the delectable concoction. It was surprisingly well seasoned and exceeded everyone’s expectations for a scant meal. Some camaraderie returned between the group now that there was a fire blazing, a warm dinner in our stomachs, and a tarp over our heads. The lighthearted disposition remained throughout camp cleanup and our final trip to the shelter. We all stripped into our thermal clothing for the night and nestled into our sleeping bags. Soon, the only sound was that of the canvas tent whipping in the breeze. I watched the fabric ripple above me.

 Although this day had been particularly grueling, I realized I was not despondent. My face was smeared with ashes and grime. I had not showered in over 60 days. My thighs were splotched with frostbite sores. Yet, after nine weeks, I felt untouchable by stench, cold, and filth alike. The snow pelted the ground outside as I allowed a sense of empowerment to carry me into sleep.