View from M’s window over two weeks ago (yes, it has taken me that long to finish this post):

M was far too small to have a real understanding of winter last year. With the recent acquisition of a ridiculously slightly too large snow suit:

And the ogling of some outrageously expensive (but supposedly warm and waterproof) boots, we are nearly ready for the 5+ months of deep freeze that is so close I can feel its frosty breath on my neck. I am looking forward to seeing the season through her eyes … the marvel of holding a puff of snow for the first time and experiencing the myriad sensations of winter as yet another new chapter unfolds in her life. What will she think of cold air, wet snow, and fierce wind? Will she share my love of clear days, the sun piercing the brittle air and crashing onto the snow, etching glittering crystals onto pure white? I have visions of her clinging to a sled, eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy, as her father drags her, careening, through the yard. Then everyone trooping inside with tingling fingers and toes, peeling off layers, everything permeated with that wintry, damp mitten smell.

For most of my adult life, I have positively despised winter. I huddled under piles of blankets, shivering and cursing, inching the thermostat up when no one was looking (until I became responsible for the gas bill, that is). I didn’t go outside except to get to my car and back (you would not have believed my joy when I finally had a garage to park in and no longer had to scrape the windows – that is my definition of heaven), and viewed people who enjoyed winter sports as an alien species. But then I survived something I thought was un-survivable, and my thoughts on winter were forever changed.

In my former life as an engineer, I had the lovely experience of traveling to the northern reaches of Canada in the depths of winter to cold-test a vehicle that was under development. The purpose of the trip was to submit said vehicle to the rigors of -40 deg F temperatures (yes, that is a minus sign) and see if it refrained from shattering into a million pieces and landing in a heap on the frozen tundra. Oh yeah, and to check if the heater, defroster, electronics, and other important bits worked effectively.

Not surprisingly, I didn’t exactly accept this assignment with a lot of grace. In fact, there was a fair amount of bitching and whining and I was only slightly mollified when my employer agreed to “outfit” me for the trip. I took my shivering ass over to a sporting goods store, got down on my knees and begged them to help me. An hour or so later I walked out equipped with the latest and greatest in cold weather gear … mostly consisting of fleece pants, various weights of long underwear, some bad-ass boots, glove and sock liners, and some of those chemical hand and foot warmers. (I already had a huge parka at home which had earned me the nickname Nanook of the North.)

But I wasn’t convinced. No way did I think that stuff stood a chance at 40 below. I was sure I would freeze into a human popsicle that would have to be airlifted home and slowly thawed in a bath of lukewarm water. And then they would have to amputate my hands and feet.

I was traveling with co-workers who were veterans of many cold winters … one having grown up in Minnesota, the other having attended school in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (where the snowbanks along roads are so high that people attach tall flags to their cars so they can see each other as they approach intersections). Despite their assurances that I would survive, I groaned and grumbled so much as the trip approached, that the two of them threatened to throw me on the ground and wrap me in duct tape if I didn’t shut up.

Finally the fateful day arrived, and we boarded our northward bound plane (thankfully, the asinine questionable plan of driving an experimental research vehicle – alone – many hundreds of miles through a desolate, arctic landscape was abandoned). After several stops, and changes onto increasingly smaller planes, we arrived at our destination. When I stepped outside, the snot in my nose instantly froze. It was cold … a cold I had never before experienced in my life.

We piled into a rented SUV, and I scrabbled for the heated seat switch, huddled deep into my coat and cursed. Repeatedly. After checking into the hotel, I doubtfully piled on my winter gear, and we set off to do some testing. And a strange thing happened – I didn’t get cold. In fact, I conducted a test that required me to stand outside on a clear night (when outer space kindly acts as a giant heat suck), when the temperature was 30 below, for almost an hour. I did not get cold. I was … well, very surprised. Pleasantly surprised.

So it turns out, my co-workers were right. If you dress appropriately, it is possible to not only survive, but even sort of enjoy utterly inhumane temperatures. And here’s the funniest part … The guy from Minnesota? He was such a cold-weather stud, he packed only regular clothes and a leather jacket. Turns out he slightly underestimated his manliness, and froze his ass off the entire trip … which gave me lots of enjoyable opportunities to mock him.

Most days the temperature hovered around 25 or 30 below, and I discovered this was very manageable with my gear (I never even had to bust out the chemical hand and foot warmers). A few times it dipped to 40 below, and while the covered parts of my body remained comfortable, any exposed flesh quickly started sending pain signals to my brain that went something like, “We’re being attacked by tiny elves with ice picks! Abort! Abort!” It was a truly odd sensation to experience cold so severe that it caused instantaneous pain. You quickly learned to minimize outside exposure on those days.

One night we ate dinner at an old house that had been converted into a seafood restaurant. The inside was warm and steamy, filled with bubbling aquariums and tantalizing aromas. Struggling into my parka, I was the last one out the door. My colleagues were already picking their way through the slippery parking lot when I found myself stranded on the porch, my glasses frosted over with a thin layer of ice. I didn’t dare attempt the snow-covered stairs without the benefit of vision correction, so I stood rooted in place, hands waving in front of me, yelling, “Uh, guys! Guys! Hey, come and get me!” I never really did live that one down.

The day we left it was sunny and cold, 40 below. We drove down frozen roads on the way to the airport, snow-covered fields stretching in every direction, dotted by the occasional lonely house. It was so cold that the steam rose in straight columns from chimneys, then stopped, piling up and lazily drifting sideways into white, gauzy tails; giving form to the invisible surface of mother nature’s vice, clamped tightly over the earth. Although my mind automatically reached for my engineering rolodex, sifting for something to explain this phenomenon, I quickly stilled it, preferring instead to simply enjoy the vision.

Upon my return home, I laughed at the puny winter. I had survived 40 below and lived to tell the tale. What was 20, 10 or even zero degrees? Ha ha! In all fairness, I still don’t like being cold, but with my new knowledge (and free gear!) I now know I can stay warm, no matter what Mother Nature throws at me.

And so it is that I actually look forward to sharing this winter with M. And teaching her the magic of wicking thermal underwear, and layers, layers, layers.