I didn’t want to move from my spot in the tent. It wasn’t that I was comfortable, I wasn’t. I could have been warmer, but I at least wasn’t getting wetter, I wasn’t shivering; I just didn’t want to move. We had just finished hiking the Chilkoot Trail from Dyea, Alaska, to Lake Bennett, in the Stikine Region of northern British Columbia. Far down the huge lake to the north was the 60th parallel and Yukon Territory.
What I had brought for rain gear was not good, and kicking myself would not have been a bad idea, for if I kicked myself long enough, I might have gotten warmer. When we reached the lake we had paired up in canoes that had been previously stashed, and in the rain, paddled 2 or 3 miles north on the 26 mile long lake, camping on the west shore. We were following the Gold Rush trail, which began earlier back in Skagway, climbed historic Chilkoot Pass, the symbol of the Yukon, despite its being the border between Alaska and BC, glissaded down the snow on the north side and finished the 33 mile trail the fifth day.
I heard some talking outside down by the shore. My partner and I had pitched our tent on the gravel well back from the water and dumped our gear inside out of the rain. He left; I stayed, like a worthless lump. A while later, I heard a crackling sound and smelled woodsmoke. That got my interest. There was a fire burning, and now I had motivation to move.
I went outside in the rain and saw a huge bonfire on the gravel beach. The lake was dead calm, rain droplets visible on the surface. I grabbed my wet gear and as I approached the blaze, there was a blast of oh so lovely heat and instant dryness. It was raining around us, but we were in a rain free cone zone by the fire. I had undoubtedly been mildly hypothermic, and I stayed put for 2 hours, drying everything I could. Life was better. Tomorrow, we would paddle a full day down the middle of the lake, the shore a mile away on either side, distance so vast that in an hour it did not appear like we made any progress compared to the nearby mountains. We would eat lunch at Boundary Island and camp further north on the east shore. The following day, with a south wind, we would lash two canoes together, use a tent fly attached to the paddles, held by each bowman, as a sail, and get a free ride to the north end at the small town of Carcross. After being windbound a day on Nares Lake, we paddled on through Tagish Lake to the beginning of the Yukon River and to Whitehorse, the capital, where the trip would end.
I recall similar life-restoring fires, like the one we had in Redwall Cavern on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon one cold May day, when a spring storm put snow on the rim, caused beautiful waterfalls everywhere around us, but we were unappreciative because our provided rubberized rain gear leaked. For the first time, I had experienced shivering to the point of near exhaustion, taking me 3 hours by another big fire to become fully warm. We camped in the cave, against regulations, because of shelter from the rain and the unseasonable cold, slept dry, and made sure the next morning there was absolutely no trace of our stay.
See you on the trail. Leave no trace of any fire when you break camp. Even warmth in the fire bed must not remain.
Boreal B[l]og 
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