Irresponsible.
Stupid.
Jackass.
It'd be fair to say there was some disapproval when I announced I'd given myself hypothermia for the benefit of the viewing public.
There's something you need to know: I'm not an idiot.
But if I wanted to educate people to the dangers of hypothermia, I had to show it. It'd be unpleasant, but necessary.
So, on a cold Wellington morning, I dressed in typical running gear, got myself wet, stood in the wind and waited.
What did it feel like? Cold. Brutally cold. Duh. I was lying in a stream, during a biting Wellington southerly - of course it was cold. My fingers were numb. My skin was screaming with pain. My arms were shaking. My teeth were chattering. But here's the remarkable thing - my core temperature had barely budged.
How did we know that? Well, again, I'm not stupid. Before we started I'd swallowed a pill-sized thermometer, and strapped on a heart rate monitor. We had Wellington Free Ambulance, the Mountain Safety Council, and hypothermia expert Jim Cotter with us to monitor things. (Thankfully, Jim's initial plan for a rectal temperature reading wasn't required.)
Hypothermia is different to being just cold. You can have blue fingers and toes, and skin like a plucked turkey, but a core temperature that's still toasty.
It only takes a drop of a few degrees for severe hypothermia to set in. Your core temperature hovers around 37 degC. Mild hypothermia starts at 35 degC.
Let's be quite clear. I'm a strong, fit, fully grown male. I can withstand a lot of physical punishment. Even so, this was always a battle I would lose.
The wind was the worst thing. At one point I jumped into an emergency bag to see the difference it made. It felt like a bed of the finest Egyptian cotton. In reality, I was soaking wet, lying on the damp, rocky ground, in a large piece of plastic. It was heaven.
But I wasn't there to lie blissfully in a bag. I jumped back out, and back into that stream.
More shaking, shivering, chattering, swearing.
I started to get hungry. Ravenous. The same feeling I get about 16 kilometres into a run. My body was burning calories at six times the normal rate to try and stay warm. Eventually, after more than two hours, I began to crash.
My temperature dropped to 35.2 degC - right on the edge of mild hypothermia - when they pulled me out.
It's a downhill slope from there to moderate and severe hypothermia. Shivering, shaking, confusion, increased heart rate and breathing, collapse, unconsciousness, cardiac arrest, death.
Don't forget - this was a demonstration. I was in no real danger. Had I been somewhere remote, with no one looking for me, how would I have fared? How much longer could I last? I'd have struggled to make shelter. The thought of a night outdoors wasn't a pleasant one.
Here's what you need to know. Be prepared. Take a windbreaker, some extra snacks, an emergency bag. Check the weather. Tell someone where you're going. Basic stuff, but stuff I didn't previously bother with when running in wild and remote places. I do now.
Hypothermia is not to be messed with. Every year a couple of hundred people are hospitalised. Every year people die. The most important thing you can do for someone with hypothermia is get them into some sort of shelter, remove or replace wet clothing, and start slowly warming them up. (More detailed instructions here)
Is this news to someone experienced in the outdoors? Possibly not, but that's not who the story's aimed at. It's the person out enjoying a day walk, the trail runner nipping out for a quick run, the tourist unfamiliar with our changeable weather.
You see, there were other responses.
"I have to watch this."
"Hypothermia costs lives, so it'll be interesting to see your report."
"Oh, wow, I didn't know that."
They're the responses I did it for. If this story can help prevent even one person from getting into trouble, then it's been of value.
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