For more of my life than I care to admit, a cool down was a term associated with video games.
Waiting to recharge some ability, power, or spell that my character (but not I,) possessed, while spamming other less effective actions waiting for a reset as seconds, minutes, and hours went by. Rinse. Repeat. Later one learned to string together other actions or, if feeling industrious, chain macros together to handle the whole affair with less effort.
After acquiring a vintage car in my early teens and attempting thereby to emulate my uncle and commiserate with my father, a one-time Porsche aficionado (his last being wrecked by yours truly at the age of two,) I suddenly became a purist when it came to the matter of how engines were cooled. I was an air-cooled man through and through, an unquestionable and absolute assertion at that time.
Soon, when matters of family and/or honour were questioned but not truly at stake, the need for any form of cool down, a walk around the block, striking a metal handrail or filing cabinet as a proxy for an offending person, or later, when slightly wiser, meditation and a good laugh at the absurdity of being riled by someone I did not respect, became associated with much-needed exercises in de-escalation and heat dissipation.
Learning how to cool down in stressful situations is important enough to devote much energy to. I’ve not yet mastered it, but get a bit better the more I focus on breath. On detachment. Still, despite best efforts and much growth, I’m an idealist and therefore a bit of a hot head.
But there are worse kinds of heat…
The sort that finds one at camp, a few days in, under a summer sun with not enough ice and hours away from any nearby resupply point that might stock said crucial supply.
It was 2015 and per default. I had on-hand the makings of a small feast. But our sun-swept cooler, as resolute as it could be, was overburdened and under-provisioned.
I can go without ice, a great sacrifice I know, but there was good company in camp and my white wine provisions were warm. “Ag, for shame” I hear you say. Poor planning or misaligned priorities the accusations will rightly say.
There should be no part of a gentleman’s soul that should go meekly into a room or camp with a warm bottle of something white if it can be helped, “death before dishonour” and all that.
So with good company, cheer, and honor at-stake, primal instincts went into play. Troves of useless knowledge from over-many books consumed were inadvertently and instantly combed.
Eventually… from where things like Algebra, common sense, or an understanding of compound interest should reside instead, something surfaced.
A sliver of a short story by Hemingway. I cannot remember if it was set in Michigan or in reference to an excursion to Spain, but it certainly involved fishing, feats of sportsmanship I’m not capable of, and a wee bit o’ white wine.
Water cooled white wine.
So, back in Oregon, on a sunny and secluded riverbank, I bounded off and on instinct, traced the ebb and flow of water, finding a little area off to one side that seemed to meet what would later become requirements:
A little bit of depth, constant but not disruptive flow, and easy access from the shore under the occasionally adverse or in-advisable retrieval condition.
Shape a cradle of river rocks using a few for weight/ballast on top of the bottle and ensure an even flow, or find a tie-off point in an oceanside tide pool, anchored or secured enough, to prevent damage or loss. A bit of butcher’s twin can come in handy too.
It’s been a staple and favored trick to teach friends ever since.
With a few minutes worth of work and a little waiting, we soon enjoyed chilled libations alongside a roaring river and had new reasons to raise a cheers its way. The cheese, fresh peach, and hot capocollo pairing would have been much diminished without a cooled down.
A bit of bubbly, albarino to pair with Moules Marinières when oceanside, or a bit of vinho verde when least expected can do wonders for morale and in forming memories.
It’s useful for beer or other beverages too, of course, a cold bottle of water on a hot summer day’s scout is doubly satisfying.
Later that year we would chill a bottle of prosecco in the snow banks of Mt. Hood while trekking off into its wilds to harvest a Christmas tree. When we returned with axes and our newly felled prize in hand, we loaded “Franks” the Toyota FJ60 and shared an early evening toast before retiring for the night.
Heat exchange and cool downs come in many forms but whenever possible, put the environment and circumstances around you to work.
