Maine Things: The Cold

For as long as I can remember, the “Ice Bowl” has been the image that comes to mind when I think of unbearable cold. That is until I moved to Northern Maine.

I’m 4/5 of the way through the 1968 best-seller Instant Replay: The Green Bay Diary of Jerry Kramer. The book recounts the entire season in which the Packers would go on to win Superbowl II. I’m just getting to the book’s climax: the 1967 NFL Championship Game between Dallas and Green Bay, also know as the “Ice Bowl.”

Now I’m no stranger to chilly temps. I’ve shoveled snow in 0° weather before. I’ve drudged 6 blocks to school when it was -5°. Heck, I’d even walked a half mile to get a case of beer during the crippling Chicago blizzard of 2011. But I always knew these experiences paled in comparison to that game on December 31, 1967.

I now have a better idea of what Jerry and the other 50,000 people who inhabited that stadium that day were up against.

Today’s forecast includes a daytime high of 0° and wind chills that will drop temperatures well into the negative teens. The only time I’ve come in contact with negative teens was the emo kids I used to see slumping around the mall when I was in 7^th grade.

The Ice Bowl famously was a game in which no whistles were used. I shouldn’t say that. One whistle was used. When referee Norm Schacter blew his whistle to begin and end the opening kickoff, he had trouble removing it from his mouth. It was so cold, when Schacter removed the metal whistle from his mouth, it tore off a chunk of his upper lip. That’s cold.

When I went to open my door last night, in similar conditions to that day, I felt my bare hand stick to the metal knob. The tiny layer of sweat that had built up from driving one-handed and clenching the other fist for dear warmth had stuck ever so slightly to the doorknob. Now, it wasn’t a situation like Norm’s lip or even Flick’s tongue in A Christmas Story. The knob had the sticking power of scotch tape, so my hand was removed with minimal distress. But it was enough to put a little fear into my heart, and convince me to always wear gloves from now on.

Speaking of gloves, it’s said that Vince Lombardi forbid his players from wearing gloves. It was a sign of weakness. But even Kramer wasn’t that brutish. “Maybe if it were 5 above zero or 10 above, I would pass on the gloves and tried to psych the Cowboys into thinking the cold didn’t bother me,” Kramer said. “But at 15 below I wasn’t going to be psyching anyone. The whole United States was going to know I was cold.”

Frozen Maine Tundra

In this type of weather, it takes only seconds for your knuckles to lock up and your flesh to numb. It’s the type of chill that would make a man strongly consider giving up smoking. The four minute release is not worth the half hour you’d have to spend warming back up.

I can recall from old films I’d seen on the Ice Bowl the head-to-toe coverings people were wearing at Lambeau Field that day. Folks were layered like nesting dolls, ballooned to six times their normal size. If there was any exposed skin at all, it was no more than four or five square inches for their eyes and mouth. I can recall thinking how absurd that was.

Not anymore. I was out today shooting some footage for a quick story on gas prices. It required me to be out of the car for no more than one or two minutes at a time, enough to quickly set up the tripod, capture the digital signs listing gas prices, a few close ups of people filling up at the pump, and boom, I’m out of there.

I wore my winter coat, but didn’t feel the need for a hat, mostly because I didn’t want to mess up my hair. I’ll never make that mistake again.

The first stop wasn’t bad. I set up, got my shots, and went to the next station. I was a little cold, but not bad. The only cool thing was the way the door of the car FLEW open with a chilly wind gust.

Minutes later, the second stop would be a different story. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was from the first exposure. The second step out of the car chilled my entire head exponentially. Not helping either was the kicking snow drift that sheeted my face in a nice rosy gloss. My hair was frosted, and I could feel the grains of snow settling in like sand from a misty beach.

I hustled my ass back into that car as soon as I could. I turned the blower on full blast and rotated the heat dial to all the way red. My Lord was it cold out there. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I was actually dreading going out there for a third time. Dreading it. My face was bright red. I could see snotcicles forming from my nose. The blown snow in my hair had already melted from the warmth of my boiling brain. It blew up a frozen cowlick wilder than the Old West. My ears felt like they would break off like a Kit Kat bar.

This time I zipped my coat all the way up to my cheeks. It hadn’t gotten a single degree warmer. It was still, as they say, cold as tits. My eyes now began to water, as if they were telling me, “Jake, it’s way too goddamn cold out here. You shouldn’t be out here. It’s OK to cry.”

I counted on having to make few adjustments when I saddled up to move to Northern Maine. A few facts of life which I had no control over, I knew I’d have to get used to.

The one thing I was the least apprehensive about was the cold. The one thing I may have been least knowledgeable about would be the cold. But I’ve picked up the tricks. They mostly have to do with driving your car. Like why people put their wipers up when snow’s coming. That you’re better off in 4-wheel, there partner. And the first-world necessity that is remote control start.