FYI: -35 is colder than -21

Ten days ago, I was poolside in Orlando, amid a sea of half-naked bodies basking at 81 degrees, higher than average for this time of year. A light haze took the edge off the heat. To put the edge back, I wore a wool sweater. When it comes to heat, I live over the edge.

In fact, I’ve gone so far over the edge I’ve come around the other side. (Like Alaska itself, which claims to be so far west it’s actually east. Some of the islands are west of the international dateline, which makes them east, so Alaskans say. I am not sure how time and space come together to make that happen.)

Now, here at the Chena Hot Springs Resort, about 60 miles northeast of Fairbanks, I am about to do the tippy-bare-toe dash down an icy sidewalk to the Rock Pool, the resort’s main attraction. It’s about 35 below zero. A wool sweater is irrelevant. To make the 100-step trek from my cabin to the bathhouse, I wore:
• 1 full set of Air-Force issue, Extreme Cold Weather long johns
• 1 turtleneck shirt
• 1 sweatshirt
• 1 pair of jeans
• 1 pair of boots with a Thinsulate lining guaranteed good to -20
• 2 pair of Extreme Cold Weather socks
• 3 versions of hat
• 2 versions of scarf
• 1 pair of double-thick wool mittens

For the 45 steps to the pool, I wear:
• 1 swimsuit, still damp from yesterday’s dip

0 robe, 0 towel, 0 flip-flops, 0 scarf to breathe through to prevent the water vapor in my lungs from freezing. There is no place to leave these accessories; everything between bathhouse and pool is twice its natural size with hoarfrost and snow.

It’s seriously cold, seriously cold. My head feels like a band is constricting it. In two days I’ve learned to measure the cold: at -21 I feel nothing. At -30, my skull begins to cave in.

With the steam rising and a light breeze wafting it this way and that (and dropping the temperature a few more degrees), hoarfrost grows on every strand of my hair. Every curl holds its shape, but every curl is suddenly a hair thicker and growing thicker by the second. With peripheral vision I watch it grow ... 1/32, 1/16, 1/8, 1/4 inch thicker. I look like a head from the movie Titanic.

My earlobes, a few inches above the 106-degree water, feel frostbit. I cover them with my wet hands. Then my hands feel frostbit.

My glasses are a solid mask of ice. Yesterday at -21, I could simply turn my head to the sky and the frost would melt away. Today it only grows thicker. I can’t see a thing, but I can hear. I hear creaking and a splash at the deep end of the pool. I hear the movement of water. I hear the voices of friends who have been here: “Grizzlies! Moose! Grizzlies! Lynx! Grizzlies! Grizzlies! Grizzlies!”

I give a little splash to warn whatever is out there it is not alone. I know from experience you don’t want to surprise a moose. Or a mountain lion. I have never surprised a bear, and I hope to never.

My splash sounds like a fish. Grizzlies like fish. I stop splashing. I’d rather take my chances on surprise than on announcing myself as breakfast.

No one else is here. No one else is coming.

I am blind. A frosty Medusa. My earlobes ache. I am making too much of inconsequential noises. Immersed in hot water, the cold and the dark are getting to me. I stay for as long as my nerves and my ears can stand it.

I flee to bathhouse. Someone has scattered salt to melt the ice that has formed on the heated walkway. My feet stick to the ice, and then to the salt. My hand sticks to the door’s metal handle. I’ve had enough adventure today.

It is 8 a.m.