Cold weather in our neck of the woods, and in my neck now that you mention it, prompts me not only to blow on my half-frozen fingers as they struggle to type, but to recall certain cold memories. Or actually, memories of cold, although some icy memories have a warm spot in my memory. Something like that.

I know that many out there have experienced many more chilly times than I, with more bitter temperatures. But they’re not writing this column, he said frostily.

Being a San Diego boy, I had to get out of town for arctic-type weather. One memory revolves around my first Boy Scout overnighter, at Camp Hualah-Cucush in the Cleveland National Forest area. That’s not the proper spelling of the camp, but I could not locate the correct name. Apparently it’s no longer used, being supplanted by Mataguay Scout Reservation between Julian and Warner Springs.

But that camp story, wow. First, the whole troop made the trip in the rear of a large stake-bed truck that had a partial canopy. All our gear was on the bed, which meant that some of our stuff got a bit crushed on the cruise. We Tenderfoot and Second Class-rank Scouts were in the open part of the bed, while the First Class and higher ranks got the protection of the canopy -- (RHIP).

When we arrived at the camp on a frosty Friday night, having enjoyed the brisk breeze during our “sub-zero” trip, we could see our breath. A lot. We hiked in the moon-illuminated evening to our designated location and set up our campsite. We slept well, as we had warm sleeping bags. But when we awoke early Saturday morning, we noticed something. Snow. Everywhere. Approximately 3 inches of it. Overhanging tree branches kept most of it off us, but there definitely had been a surprise storm.

We were smart enough to recognize that. And as Be Prepared is the Scout motto, we were prepared. Prepared to eat breakfast and get the heck out of there. Which is what we did, although we had to carefully warm the syrup bottles for our campfire pancakes, as the sticky-sweet stuff was frozen.

Thus fortified with hotcakes, plus cups of scalding hot chocolate in tin cups, we made our exit. It was extremely wintry. Like glacial. When I got home that afternoon, half my camping stuff was missing from my pack, which apparently had been forced open by people standing on it.

I did not care about the missing items. All I wanted was to get warm. So I took one of the longest hot showers on record.

Another recollection involves covering a missing child story in Idlewild, Calif. I was working in the former San Diego Evening Tribune Escondido bureau and was assigned by telephone. To make a long story short, I drove to the search-and-rescue camp; spent the night (a cold one) on the front seat of a rescue rig with half-a-dozen radios blaring all evening; and stayed at the scene until the next evening.

When I got back to our home in Escondido, the mountain chill was still in my bones. So I took the longest hot bath on record. Guess I don’t enjoy being Polarized.

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