My Family:
Frozen July

I shivered to the very center of my bones as I watched the snow-packed Teton Mountains loom into view. All the fears of the past three months seemed now to be a reality. I was going to freeze to death in the middle of July.

I’d seen the snow unmelted on the peaks. I knew the lakes would be frozen over. We’d live in snow caves and melt ice for drinking water. We’d walk on snowshoes and try to light fires with wet tinder. It was enough to make me forget that it was my turn to be alone with Dad.

My father’s work requires him to spend a lot of time away from home. So each summer, he makes up for it by taking me or one of my two brothers on a trip. This canoe trip through Yellowstone National Park and the surrounding area was to be my turn. The anticipation of having Dad to myself for a whole week was wonderful. But it was overshadowed by my fear of freezing. Even though it was a roasting July down in the valleys, I knew it must be cold up in the mountains.

I was pleasantly surprised when we arrived at Camp Loll, our first night’s stop. Though the air was crisp, snow wasn’t flying everywhere. But my fear of freezing quickly returned when a guide met us in the parking lot and told us to get ready for a swim check.

Swim check! No one had told me anything about that. I didn’t think I’d be required to get into the water. I’d come to go hiking and canoeing, not swimming. What good would all my Scout training do me if I froze to death before my 14th birthday?

The lake fulfilled all my nightmares. Slippery black water sucked me down and forced the air from my chest. But somehow I made it to the edge of the dock. By then my body was numb, and finishing the swim check was a conditioned response.

Then, to add to my despair, the guide said we now had to paddle out, swamp a canoe, get all the water out, and paddle back to shore. What if a huge ice cube formed around me and I sank? But wait a minute—ice floats! Some consolation.

Luckily, Dad was my partner. He’s been a canoeing instructor, and he really knew what he was doing. The swamping exercise was over in a matter of minutes, and it was really quite fun.

As we walked back to camp, it occurred to me that even though we were up in the mountains, it was really pretty warm. Maybe my July wasn’t going to be frozen after all. Dad and I spent the rest of the afternoon hiking around the lake, then playing horseshoes.

Morning came as quickly as I had gone to sleep, and after breakfast and a short ride to Lewis Lake we were canoeing our way to our first campsite. Surprise! There were no icebergs floating on the water. We did break a paddle, and at one point we had to pull the canoe up the Shoshone River, but the scenery and the fishing more than made up for the work.

By the third and fourth days, the warm summer sun had taken all my fears of freezing away. Winter didn’t live perpetually in the mountains. In fact, with a little hard paddling I could work up a sweat. I was beginning to wonder if anything exciting would happen on our trip.

Dad and I went fishing for breakfast. The early sun rays had just peeked over the hills when I hooked something.

“You’ve caught the bottom of the lake,” Dad said.

But how could the bottom of the lake be moving around the canoe?

“It just seems like that because the canoe’s moving,” he said.

But since I was slowly reeling it up, we decided I must have snagged a piece of wood.

“But Dad,” I said, “if it’s a log, why is it jerking? Dad, it’s pulling the line back out!”

And the piece of wood swam underneath where Dad was sitting in the canoe.

As if not to scare the fish, Dad whispered, “Wow! You’ve only got four-pound test line! Better let some out and play with him awhile.”

The fish could easily snap the line. I would have to be careful and wear him out. I unreeled some line and waited.

“That’s the biggest mackinaw I’ve ever seen,” Dad said. “He’s longer than the canoe is wide.”

For what seemed like hours I let out line and reeled line in. Finally I eased the “mac” alongside the canoe, and, since we had no net, Dad reached down and slipped his finger inside the gills. I leaned to the other side to counterbalance Dad as he lifted the fish into the boat.

I felt a sudden lunge, heard a splash, and then heard a dreadful moan from Dad. I twisted around just in time to see a massive dark green shape swim away. Dad slowly sank to the bottom of the canoe and stared blankly at the water.

“Kev,” he said, “you caught the biggest fish I’ve ever seen, and I let it get away.”

My momentary anger quickly caved in. Dad was hurting all right. But he was hurting for me. When he realized how big that fish was, he could have taken over and reeled it in himself. It was, after all, his pole, his lure, his line. But no, he gave me the chance and now was in pain because forces beyond my control had deprived me. He said he was sorry, and eventually we laughed about it and went on to catch other fish.

Many other things happened on that trip. We hiked over the continental divide, we saw geysers spout and hot pots bubble and fume. We saw an elk in velvet and swam in the Fire Hole River. And guess what—not once did we freeze to death. I never even saw an igloo!

But something was frozen on that day in July when the fish swam away from the boat. A moment in time was frozen in my memory, a moment when I learned that my dad is also my buddy, and that he cares very much what happens to me.