Frost Bites

"Everybody up!!"

Someone groaned; it might have been me.

Saturday morning, 6:30. Still dark of course; that's what happens when you get up at 6:30 AM in February. Not that we had much choice. It was Race Day, although 'race' might have been putting too fine a point on it. More like 'Snowshoe-Through-Waist-Deep-Snow-For-28-Miles-To-Toughen-You-Up' Day, but that didn't quite have the same ring as 'Race Day'.

So lying in a warm bed on a cold morning, in a boarding-school dorm waiting to be 'toughened up', was not something you looked forward to. About the only good thing about Race Day was that this was the last of it: after today, there would be no more 15-mile 'training runs' across the wide-open prairie, no more wind so cold that it freezes your eyelids shut.

No more yelling in your ear at 6:30 on a cold February morning.

"Fifteen minutes to breakfast! Gold team clean-up! Back here at 7:30 for inspection!" Then, in case anyone within screaming distance hadn't heard his voice, "Everybody UP!!"

That was Mr. Jones, and you didn't mess around with him. Some other teachers you could nudge a bit here, fool a bit there. Not Jones; he was always watching with those hawk eyes of his, always able to see right through any weak excuse or sad-sack story a scrawny 12 year-old could throw at him.

Which meant we were all sitting in the mess hall exactly 15 minutes later.

"Inspection! Parkas, mitts, socks, moccasins!"

The teachers yelled because some of us didn't hear all that well. Nothing wrong with our ears: when you're 12 years old, sometimes you don't hear things properly. Put 40 of us together, sometimes you really don't hear things properly. So, inspection was important.

Not that there was much to inspect. We all knew the rules: a couple/three layers under the parkas, no more; a couple pairs of wool socks, no more; no holes in the tough rawhide moccasins; two pairs of mitts, wool inside, rawhide outside, NO GLOVES. We had been through it a dozen times, and if you wanted to avoid teacher wrath, you followed the rules, unless you didn't need to. So I followed the rules.

Except for the last part.

I wasn't quite sure where my wool mitts were (Davies might have stolen them), but I did have a pretty good pair of leather gloves, which were neater-looking than the mittens anyway. Besides, the big rawhide outer mittens would cover the rule breakage, and appearing to follow the rules was the same as following the rules. That was sort of an unwritten rule, wasn’t it?

At ten minutes to eight, we were on the playing field, pumping little whale-spouts of breath into the thin, early morning light. Everyone made their last-minute adjustments, especially to the lampwick bindings.

Bindings were tricky. They had to be loose enough so they didn't restrict blood flow to your feet, but tight enough not to slip off mid-stride. Tied properly, the bindings allowed you to lift your heel off the snowshoe in a natural running motion. Or, as natural as possible given that you were dragging a few pounds of wood and caribou hide.

So everyone checked and re-checked their bindings, although in my case, it might have been a bit more difficult. I had to be careful because I couldn't let any of the teachers see that I had gloves under my mitts.

One of the consequences of breaking the rules.

"Line up!" Again with the yelling. "Form your teams!

We shuffled into ragged lines. Even though we were all dressed in identical yellow parkas (hoods lined with thick wolverine fur to avoid frost build-up), you knew your team members by the droop of the shoulders. That's what you got for staring at their backs for those long hours during practice runs.

It was getting brighter by the minute, which was the reason the race started at 8 AM. If it had started at 7, it would have been pitch black outside.

Off to one side, the Juniors- Grades Five and Six- were staring at us. Weenies: of the three groups racing that day, they had it the easiest. Once we left, they would gather their gear and climb aboard the bus for Lockport, where they started their race. We wouldn't even be in Lockport until noon- if we pushed it. The Juniors raced all of 18 miles; we did that in the afternoon- after racing all morning. Probably uphill all the way.

"Listen up!!"

We all turned to see the headmaster standing on the hood of a car, which was pretty neat, considering.

"It's a beautiful day for a race." Mr. Wiens would have said that if it had been a howling blizzard. In this case, a 'beautiful day' meant sunny and 18 degrees below zero.

"This is the Intermediate Pritchard Race. The route is as follows: school trail to the hydro lines, hydro lines south to Fort Road, cross-country to Lockport for lunch. From Lockport, follow the west bank of the Red River, not on the ice. You will finish at the Kildonan Park south gate, sometime after 4 PM. Rules are simple: everyone in your team has to cross the finish line if you don't want to be disqualified." He paused, and gave a tight smile. "The winning team, as you know, gets the accolades due them."

Didn't 100% know what 'accolades' were, but I knew it wasn't cash money.

"And no stragglers. Your team stays together, no matter what. No more than 50 yards from trailblazer to last man."

Mass start, mass confusion.

Six teams strung out across the playing field, all headed for the 'school trail', a narrow path winding through 50 acres of bush. Didn't much matter who got there first; over 28 miles, there wasn't any advantage to leading the charge. Besides, it had snowed heavily over the last few days, and that meant the lead team was always trailblazing-  and that meant they would get tired very quickly.

We got to the trail third, close enough to keep up with the lead team. 

It took about 20 minutes for Lee to puke.

We knew it would happen, because Lee always ate way too much and way too quickly. So when he peeled off the trail and bent over, everyone kept their distance as he cacked into the snow.

"Out of the way!!"

That was the team behind us, being dramatic. We sort-of moved over to let them pass, but only sort-of, because this was still a race. Some of the more excitable of them blazed their own trail through new snow beside us.

Team four went past, then 30 seconds later, teams five and six. Which meant all of a sudden, we were team six.

"Jesus, Lee, now we're last."

"Sorry," he said, then belched. You didn't want to be downwind of that.

We got back on the trail- nicely packed down by now- and settled into a rhythm. Head down, one foot in front of the other, brain in neutral. That's how you did it, because you didn't want to even think about the distance you had to travel.

I was particularly good at putting my brain in neutral.

There are two different kinds of snowshoes. Woodland 'shoes are rounder, shorter, made for tramping through forest and bush. The plains snowshoe is much longer, with an almost lethal-looking business end and a tail out the back. It's made of birch or white ash, and strung with twisted caribou hide. They're made for deep drifting and the wide open prairie. 

There's no free ride with snowshoes: you earn each step, 28 miles without sliding one inch forward.

Even though it was the dead of winter, Lockport was like an oasis. We got a meal and a chance to sit for 20 minutes (exactly: this was a race, and we were timed in and out). There was warm shack if we wanted it, but we all ate outside, because you didn't want to overheat, or in Lee's case, overeat. We might have complained/grumbled/whined a bit, but there was an underlying bubble of excitement to our chatter, because we were halfway through race day.

"Hit the washroom, check your gear."

That reminded me: I had to be careful because of the broken rule. Weird about breaking rules: sometimes the worry you carry around outweighs the benefit of breaking the rule in the first place.

I made sure no one saw that I was wearing gloves underneath the mitts. It was awkward, but I managed to eat with my mitts on, and I found an out-of-the-way spot to retie my bindings. Didn't really look to see what I was doing, because I kept checking for teachers. Anyway, I had tied bindings so often that I could do it even with my oddly stiff fingers.

When we left Lockport, we were in fourth place. The team that had lead out of the gate (Maunder's team, wouldn't you know) was dead last, having blown out their energy within the first hour of the race.

It was a slog, but we were used to slogs. That's what the six-hour training sessions were for, and the ten-hour trainings sessions. And even though it was 28 miles, it was never '28 miles'; it was getting to the next bend in the trail, or crossing the next field, or heading for the next treeline. That's how you did it: you focus on the steps in front of you, then the next few, and so on until there were no more steps.

Wasn't cold, either. Your furnace was going full tilt, and the heavy parka was a shield against the prairie winter. You could look out through the fur-lined hood to the ice, blizzards and sub-zero temperatures, but they were out there, while you were safe and warm behind your armour.

Unless there was a chink someplace.

We pushed it, and 22 miles into the race, we passed another team. Passing was like a slow-motion dream; you gradually came up from behind, then your trailblazer chose the right spot to veer to the side to start working past them. No words, just the laboured breathing of two teams chugging along side-by-side, and the swish, crunch and creak of the snowshoes.

It took three or four minutes to make the pass. Sure, there was a bit of satisfaction involved, but by that time in the race, you were bone-tired, and all you were just thinking about was getting to the finish line and sleeping for a day or two.

That was all we could manage. We wound up finishing third of six teams,  which to me was... acceptable. Probably anything other than dead last would have been acceptable, and even then, I'm sure I could have come up with some rationale that would make it okay.

So we piled in third, to the cheers (and snickers) of teams one and two. As soon as we slid off our snowshoes, we turned and waited for the fourth place team so that we could cheer them on (and snicker). Teams five and six were still a couple of miles back, so we had time to ourselves. That meant sitting down in a warm shed, finally getting out of our parkas and gear, and hot chocolate.

I frowned. Wasn't quite sure what I was looking at, but it wasn't supposed to look like that.

My fingers were supposed to be, you know- pink, especially now that I was starting to warm up. But one of them wasn't pink, or any variation thereof. My entire left index finger was sort of off-white, and not a tasteful off-white, more like blue-grey white. Like something dead.

"Holy shit!" Davies was staring at me, or rather my left hand, which I held up in front of me.

"You better show that to someone."

'That', as if it wasn't me. I didn't like the way he said it, the same way I didn't like the little knot of panic in my stomach. The same way I didn't like the look on his face.

It was just plain weird to look at, almost as if it had been spray-painted that ungodly, unnatural, unhealthy colour. Probably would hurt a bit when the warmth started creeping back in, like those little pinpricks when your foot goes to sleep and the blood comes rushing back.

The odd thing was, I couldn't bend it. I sent out the signal and everything, and the other fingers responded, but not the index finger. It wagged a bit, but didn't bend. So to warm it up, I wrapped my other hand around it.

"Holy shit!" That one came from me.

Because it was cold, really cold, and not normal cold.

"I'm getting Mr. Wiens," Davies said, which was almost... shocking. You never ran and told a teacher anything unless someone was about to lose his life doing something stupid, and even then, it was a judgment call. So the very fact that Davies ran off to get Mr. Wiens- and I was secretly glad he did- said something.

By now a few of the other kids had been drawn by the two 'holy shits', and they clustered around.

"Wow!" "Look at that!" "Neat." "Does it hurt?"

"Boys! Out of the way!"

Mr. Wiens was there, pushing through the knot of excited 12 year-olds. I have to admit that I was kind of excited, too, because we were all looking at this thing we had never seen before.

I could tell from the look on Mr. Wiens' face that he wasn't excited. Always serious, his expression got tighter when he looked at my hand. "Boys!" he said sharply, and the noise dropped instantly.

He took my hand, frowning. "Tommy, what have you done?" He wasn't really expecting an answer; it was a common enough greeting when we saw each other (that's how I learned what 'rhetorical' meant).

"Jacobs, give me your hot chocolate."

Hot chocolate was one of the few rewards we got for making the trudge, and Jacobs already had his. Jacobs was pretty well first with anything that had to do with food, and had been huddling over his hot chocolate for a few minutes. He handed it over without a word, curious and maybe a bit resentful, but you don't hesitate/equivocate/delay when Mr. Wiens tells you something.

Mr. Wiens put the hot chocolate on the table in front of me, then dipped his finger into it, testing the temperature. Then he grabbed my hand and pushed it into the cup. Which surprised just about everyone. Wow! This was different. My first thought was that I wondered if Jacobs would finish his hot chocolate after my finger had been in it.

Weird thing: I didn't feel anything. Oh, I felt the warmth on my palm -which was a normal colour- but nothing from my finger, knuckles-deep in Jacobs's hot chocolate.

"So. What were you wearing?"

You also don't lie to Mr. Wiens, don't skirt the truth. I nodded to the messy pile of clothing stacked beside the bench. A dozen heads swivelled to look. They all saw the same thing: parka, toque, rawhide mitts- and leather gloves peeking out from underneath. I had been careful not to show the gloves during the race, but once it was over, caution had evaporated as quickly as my attention to detail. So with everyone staring at the leather gloves, I could almost hear a collective 'ooooh'.

It was obvious I had broken a rule, and an important one at that. I knew it was important because the teachers keep repeating it, and they only repeated rules that were... well,  important.

Mr. Wiens shook his head, but otherwise didn't say anything, which was different. He was never shy about telling anyone what they had done wrong, or right, but mostly wrong. And he was never shy about meting out appropriate punishment.

'Punishment' was a big stick. And not a figurative big stick. It was called 'the stretcher", and it was an educational learning tool of the highest order. Simple enough philosophy: you transgress, you get the stretcher. Instant, effective, painful. "Lean over. Hands on your knees." About three feet long, 4 inches wide, with a handle, which made it easier to grip as you (well, a teacher) gave four or five pretty forceful whacks on the butt. Years later, when I saw a cricket bat for the first time, I wondered how they got their hands on a stretcher.

Great entertainment for everyone watching, but always tinged with a bit of empathy: everyone got the stretcher at least once (except Carson, who was perfect). Some of us got it regularly, maybe once a week, sometimes for nothing more than looking sideways at a teacher. But Mr. Wiens didn't seem interested in punishment, which was odd, and a little worrying.

Everyone stared for about 30 seconds, but when it was clear I wasn't going to get the stretcher, the fringes started drifting away, then the centre started drifting away. They had never seen a grey/white finger before, but now they had, and what else was new?

Mr. Wiens pulled my fingers out of the hot chocolate, made a face. Same sick colour. He pursed his lips. "We're going to have to do something about this." I wasn't sure if he was talking abut my frozen finger, or was figuring out a particularly creative punishment. Which meant it wasn't over.

We left Jacobs staring at the hot chocolate, a look of indecision on his face.

It wasn't 'over' for the next two months.

The first night was the worst, constant needles of pain shooting up and down the finger as the freezing came out. And pressure, as if someone was squeezing my hand. I would drop off into fitful sleep, and 45 minutes later wake up in pain, look down at my hand, and try not to get sick. Couldn't even see the finger, just sausage-sized blisters where it used to be. I'd stumble out of bed and head for the infirmary, where Mr. Wiens was sleeping on a cot. I only realized later that he was sleeping in the infirmary because he knew what would happen. So when I shuffled in, holding my hand, he sat me down at a table and went to work.

Warning: descriptions ahead of what even mild frostbite can do.

'Going to work' meant heating up the sharp point of a knife and lancing the blisters. And of course, they were so full of... well, what blisters are full of, that we had to wipe down the table after they were lanced. The actual lancing didn't hurt, because the skin was dead. And there was a noticeable lack of pressure afterwards.

But the needles of pain were still there, I guess because the thaw was working deeper into the frozen flesh. So I would head back to bed, toss and turn in a fevered half-sleep, then wake up again, blisters painfully tight. And this after having spent all day racing 28 miles on snowshoes.

It was on the third visit to Mr. Wiens, probably around 4 AM, that it occurred to me why I hadn't been punished. I was amazed by his patience, almost as if he knew this was going to happen. And I realized- he did know, the same way he knew I would learn from the consequences of my actions, the same way he knew I would be thinking about this years later.

"Wow, neat!"

"Ya, gross!!"

The next morning, they were all clustered around me, looking down at my hand. The blisters were huge, of course, because it had been a couple of hours since they had been lanced.

"Does it hurt?"

"Nah," I said off-handedly, although the needles were still there, but they weren't quite as sharp. In fact, I had actually been able to fall asleep for a couple of hours after the third lancing of the blisters.

"Can we touch 'em?"

"Sure."

Half a dozen fingers poked at the blisters, which I understood because I had already done it a few times. They felt exactly like those skinny party balloons: tight, soft and they gave a bit when you pushed into them. Like I said, neat.

'Neat' for about a day. Then the necrotizing set it.

Warning: more gross frostbite descriptions.

Over the next few days, the top layer of skin became darker and darker, until it was almost black. Under the nail, too, although that was more of a dark purple then the black of the skin. The dying skin extended all the way down to the base of the finger, which looked like it had been roasted in a fire.

I didn't lose the finger, but I did lose a lot of skin, and a nail, which was an event in itself when I levered it off in mid-class. The dead skin came off bit by bit over the next few weeks. The 'new' finger underneath was soft and baby-pink and amazingly sensitive to cold (to this day). I felt part reptile, with all the shedding of skin.

The oddest thing was that the finger stopped growing, or at least slowed dramatically. I guess the freezing had gone deep enough to affect the bone. Whatever the reason, my left index finger is the oddball of my finger family, a full half inch shorter than its counterpart.

Never did get punished, either. The headmaster knew that in this case, corporal punishment would have been redundant: I had already been severely and corporally punished. Besides, he knew that I had learned something about rules and consequences.

And I had: when you break the rules, make sure to properly hide the evidence