With nighttime lows hovering in the 20s and daytime highs struggling to climb out of the 30s this week, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about being cold.

 

Specifically, I’ve been trying to remember the times spent in the outdoors during which I have been the coldest.  Countless duck hunts come to mind, as well as numerous deer hunts and even a few spring turkey hunts.

 

Out of all the arctic duck hunting experiences, two bitter mornings really stand out.  The first was spent in the flooded timber of the Noxubee Wildlife Refuge and the other on a farm near Sidon in the Mississippi Delta.

 

The Noxubee hunt was frigid, with temperatures in the low teens.  I punctured one of the boots of my waders on a beaver-sharpened stick while walking in and spent the morning breaking ice in the duck hole with one soggy, frozen foot.

 

Fortunately, there was little wind if any that day on “The Fuge,” and that may have been my saving grace.  However, the same can’t be said for the bone-chilling day in the Delta.

 

Single digit temps and wind that felt like tiny razor blades across exposed skin set the stage for what was, without question, the coldest day of duck hunting I have ever experienced

We survived and remained frostbite-free thanks to the small propane heater we had taken to the blind, an endless supply of handwarmers (I think I used 12 to 15 in my handwarmer muff), and the fact that, apart from our eyes, nothing was left exposed to the polar gale.

 

I left the blind that day with a new appreciation for Ullfrotté wool underwear and goose-down insulation.  I also left with the understanding that there is cold, and there is Mississippi Delta cold.

 

As cold as my foot had been that day in the flooded timber, the coldest I can recall my feet being came as a boy during a week-long winter storm in North Mississippi.  The experience taught me an important lesson I have never forgotten.

 

Everything was frozen solid and had been for several days.  The ground was covered with needle ice, looking as if it were spewing forth tiny columns of glass, and our small ponds were blanketed with a solid sheet of ice well over an inch thick.

 

For our horses to have water, I needed to chop a hole in the ice each morning and afternoon.  In preparation that morning, I put on cotton insulated underwear, a sweatshirt, sweatpants, my heaviest coat, gloves and a toboggan hat.  I also slipped on as many pairs of cotton tube socks as would fit into my pair of thin rubber boots.

 

My mom had bought the boots, which were styled to look like cowboy boots, at the local feed store that summer.  They were perfect for hot weather; however, they had zero insulation which left them ill equipped to handle the cold.

 

Later that morning, I headed out hunting with my dad.  We found a spot alongside a well-used game trail and made a small ground blind.  The fallen log on which we sat kept our bottoms dry, but offered little comfort from the frozen ground below, especially for my feet.

 

While I could still feel both during the walk in that morning, within minutes of sitting down my feet felt like blocks of ice inside the thin-soled non-insulated boots.  Thinking about it now makes my toes ache.

 

I learned that day the ineffectiveness of cotton against the cold and the value of a good pair of hunting boots.  It was a lesson that I’ve never forgotten.  Years later, standing in a cattle pasture that bordered a swamp and cypress hammock in South Florida, I learned another valuable lesson about hunting in cold weather.

 

Without a doubt, I know that it’s odd to think about cold weather and Florida, especially South Florida.  However, the warm temps that we had experienced during two days of scouting plummeted overnight, and opening morning greeted us with temps in the upper 20s.

 

When I’m outfitted properly, 28 doesn’t seem all that cold.  However, that morning, aside from our turkey vests, my father-in-law and I were wearing only Mossy Oak Treklite camo.

 

The 100% polyester moisture-wicking material is perfect for hot weather late-season turkey hunting, which is exactly what we expected to encounter in South Florida.  However, the thin layer was no match for the cold, and it left us exposed to the elements.  We were basically hunting in our underwear.

 

Standing in the predawn with our teeth chattering uncontrollably, we longed for the warmth of the rising sun.  To add to our misery, we were soon startled by a group of cows walking past us unseen in the darkness accompanied by a giant bull that bellowed at us from mere steps away.

 

“I’m so cold.  I’ve never been this cold,” said Pop.

 

“Same,” I replied through chattering teeth.

 

“I wish that bull would walk over here and stomp us out of our misery,” he quipped.

 

I think our shared laughter in response to his remark is perhaps the only thing that kept us both from experiencing hypothermia.

 

Later that morning, Pop finished his Grand Slam, taking a fine Osceola.  Neither of us minded the chill on the walk out with his trophy longbeard, but I’ve never forgotten the intense burn of that cold.  I’ve also never forgotten to head to the woods on a cold spring morning without a jacket or hoodie thrown in the back pocket of my turkey vest.

 

Until next time, here’s to frosty mornings and frozen afternoons, here’s to lessons learned, and here’s to seeing you out there cold (but prepared) in our great outdoors.