A frigid blast of wind slashed my face, and I shivered, pulling my sweatshirt tighter around me. Despite the crisp, cold air, the June sun shone brilliantly, making the slick mountain ice glitter like diamonds. I could hear the other girls’ teeth chattering as we struggled up the mountain. By the time we stopped, they looked ready to collapse into an icy grave because it was so unbearably, bone-chillingly cold. The camp leaders had told them we were doing yoga that morning, so they were all dressed in shorts and tank tops. I hadn’t heard anything about yoga, only frigid mountain climbing. I was grateful I’d come prepared with a sweatshirt, but my hands and feet were numb. All I wanted was to get off that mountain and defrost in the village below.
After what felt like a millennium, with red noses and rosy faces, we scrambled back into the rickety ski lift for the rattling descent to the village. Spilling out of the lift, we basked in the warm breeze and radiant sunshine. The bitter, icy mountain was instantly forgotten. The village was quaint, lovely, and inviting: cobblestone streets, colorful shops, windowsill pots blooming with cheerful scarlet geraniums, and the distant sound of bells from a picturesque church nestled among emerald pines. We stopped for ice cream, which we ate on a small wooden bridge. Licking my dripping Nutella ice cream cone and watching the bubbling stream below my feet, I felt that everything was right with the world.
Everything, that is, except the sticky sweat that was starting to trickle down my neck and plaster my hair to my forehead. I looked longingly at the other girls in their tank tops and shorts. In my fuzzy grey sweatshirt, I felt like a sweaty, overstuffed penguin. Why didn’t I dress like them? Feeling sorry for myself, I drank the last of my melted ice cream and started to take the sweatshirt off. The thick cotton shirt I had on underneath would still be uncomfortably warm, but at least it was better than a sweatshirt in June! Suddenly, I glanced at everyone else again. We’d been off the mountain for over an hour, but their faces were still flushed pink. So were their bare arms and legs. I didn’t recall seeing anyone in the group pack sunscreen that morning, and we still had the rest of the day ahead of us. I considered for a moment and resolved to keep my sweatshirt on, no matter how sweaty, stifling, or insufferable it got.
Finished with our ice cream, we rented bikes and rode down a winding 15-kilometer trail through the mountain forest. The breeze from our momentum did little to refresh us, and the second we stopped to rest, the sweltering, blasting heat beat down on us again. I was still valiantly wearing my sweatshirt, but it felt like I was trapped in a furnace. Three long, miserable hours dragged by. I felt dizzy and faint. I regretted all my life choices. I even started to wonder if, thanks to the sweatshirt, I would be remembered as the girl who died of heat stroke during summer camp. When I finally got back to the cabin that evening, I collapsed on my bed, nauseous and utterly exhausted. I peeled the sweatshirt off my dripping back and instantly felt better. The other girls, however, were at the gates of an inferno. Not a drop of sunscreen had touched their skin all day, and they were fried to a crisp.
After dinner, I slipped into my pajamas and settled on the porch, watching the golden sun descend to dusk and the first blinking fireflies emerge from the trees. I closed my eyes and sighed contentedly, enjoying the stillness of the summer night.
Inside the cabin was chaos. Our camp leaders were busy mutilating the cabin, desperately searching for anything to relieve the excruciating sunburns that covered the girls’ bodies. They found nothing. The nearest pharmacy was miles away, and shops were about to close for the night. The situation was dire, and girls were sobbing in agony. The leaders tramped through the campground, begging door-to-door for aloe vera. To our despair, they returned empty-handed.
Finally, we retreated to the camp owner’s cabin, pleading with her to tell us of anyone or anything in the world that could help our suffering girls. She had no burn cream or ointment, but she did have a sizeable aloe vera plant growing by her back porch. Someone procured a pocketknife, and we sliced enough leaves off the plant to temporarily appease the scorching pain. It was past midnight when at last the other girls crawled into bed for a tortured, sleepless night. I, on the other hand, drifted blissfully into happy dreams. The sweatshirt lay crumpled on the floor, a silent reminder, I suppose, that if ye are prepared, ye shall not fear.
