I Swam in Snow to Maintain My 4000+ Day Swim Streak

Peter is on a 4,200 day swimming streak that not even below zero temps could break. During a recent dumping of snow in Armidale, NSW Peter grabbed his Speedos and headed for the dam.

I’ve been a cold water junkie for years now, so when NSW’s Northern Tablelands had its biggest dump of snow in decades – maybe ever – there was absolutely no way I was missing the opportunity for a swim! This was a once in a lifetime chance for a completely unique experience at one of my local swimming spots.

As I drove along the slow-lined road, anticipation and excitement high, I mapped out the swim in my head. Planning is key to cold water swimming. It’s critical to not waste time at any stage. Get in, swim, get out, warm up. I ran through the process from preparing my clothes and towel for quick post-swim access, to getting in the water for the initial sting of cold. A big part is visualising how the swim will feel as it progresses, based on previous experience, and working out how long to stay in.

I knew the dam well, almost like my own backyard, and had a good idea what I was in for. One lap is a bit more than 1km, and usually takes me 16 minutes in summer, and a bit more than 20 minutes in winter with clawed hands.

With more than ten years of swimming through winter, and an Ice Mile under my belt, I also knew about cold water. But the thing with nature, the thing that keeps me full of romantic foolishness, is that there are always surprises that keep you on your toes and prevent you holding expectations too tightly. Nothing ever turns out as planned, and it pays to be adaptable. After all, the gap between expectation and reality is where adventure creeps in.

The dam was a postcard when I drove into the reserve. Black and white. Sharp edges. She was a beauty! Built as a water supply in the 1890s, now set aside for recreation, it’s a place I’ve swum thousands of times – in all seasons – and know better than anyone else. I’ve camped, swum, passed milestones, fished, and watched my family grow in and around this water.

But today’s swim, with all this snow, would be orders of magnitude different to any I’ve had in the past. Snow all the way down to the shoreline, the boat ramp blanketed, and the trees bent under their unfamiliar burden. Everything was hushed. Even the birds were mostly silent, either in reverence or stunned, not quite sure what to do with all this strange white stuff.

A quick change, and I was at the water’s edge in a swim cap, Speedos, and gumboots – the height of fashion. Flocks of coots and Teal ducks swam off-shore, circling each other. My towel and winter swimming coat were piled behind me on the snow. I activated the internal process I have for entering cold water – constant forward motion.

The towel and coat were now artefacts from the past and what lay in front of me was as inevitable as the passing of time. I stepped from my gumboots straight into the dam, leaving them parked ominously on the boat ramp; dark tombstones at the waters edge. No looking back now.

Even after years of cold swimming, the first few strokes in sub-10ºC water are fast and hurried, a controlled panic. Inhales without exhales. But then the rhythm settles in, helped by my mantra of warm thoughts. ‘Warm seas and palm trees’, repeated until I gained control. I moved my arms moved purposefully and my desire to gasp transitioned to a steady breath every third stroke.

A few minutes in I felt great – relatively great maybe. As great as a person in an ice cold lake surrounded by snow can be. Endorphins were spinning. My watch told me it was 6.5°C. I continued towards the back of the dam, stopping occasionally to look around, experiencing the swim rather than rushing through it. I wanted to remember this view and feel the pain delivered by the water. A pair of coots swam past with their heads bobbing, equally mesmerised.

Continuing north, I caught glimpses of the snow-draped shore, shifting in and out of view as I cycled through my freestyle strokes. Suddenly, without even a polite, gradual gradient, I hit a wall of intense freezing water. I reeled at the slap it delivered but kept moving through it.

‘Shit. This is different. Maybe it’s a bit dangerous’, I wondered. I didn’t expect this level of cold. Icy snow-melt flowed into the dam via a creek, taking up space in the shallow delta where it entered and pushing a front of cold out into the main body of water.

I scanned my body. Everything seemed functional, though I could no longer feel my hands and feet. Completely numb. My nose felt punched. I looked at my watch. 2.5°C. Bloody hell! It probably is dangerous. According to the The International Ice Swimming Association, anything under 10°C counts as cold swimming, and under 5°C qualifies as ice swimming. I’d ticked both boxes with a single swim!

My inner warning bell sounded. I heard it, but chose to ignore the clang. Who knew when I’d get this chance again? No time to spend thinking – using your brain in these situations is a waste of precious energy. Time to rely on experience and instinct. I swam on towards the back of the dam. With each stroke the numbness crept further up my limbs.

Then I hit it. Head-on. It stopped me dead.

Ice.

What?

Ice!

What?!

Whoa! I couldn’t believe it. A sheet as thick as a pencil spanned the water in front of me. I tried bringing my hand down through it, but it didn’t break.

‘So cool! This is awesome! But also a bit risky’, I thought. Conflicting emotions.

I scanned the ice in front of me. It stretched all the way to my planned turning point. Fifty metres at least. No way I’d get through and back. Even a skull as thick as mine was no icebreaker under these conditions. Taking one last look, I turned and headed for deeper water.

My mind hummed with excitement. Ice! On the dam! This has never happened before! With this level of cold, the safest thing to do was to head back to the boat ramp. Even dumb people eventually make smart decisions. My hands were lumps of ham as they moved through the water. The cold had sapped all strength from my fingers, which splayed helplessly, and my pinkies ached.

But the intense sensations weren’t over yet! Crossing the thermocline into the main body of the dam felt like diving from winter into a tropical sea. The difference between 2.5°C and 6.5°C, a mere 4ºC, was amazing! Clenched capillaries opened and warmth flooded my body. I knew, and this is where logic and experience are useful, despite feeling warm I was still in cold water and that I shouldn’t mess around. However, I now felt safe enough to finish my initial plan of a lap around the dam without cutting it short with a dash to the boat ramp.

I reached the wall, turned, and headed into the last 200m of the swim. My excitement grew. I’d done it. Everything ached, but I was elated. The cold water and ice, and the spectrum of physical sensations and emotions they evoked can’t be described. Numb feet carried me clumsily up the boat ramp, into gumboots, then the warm embrace of my towel. I stood looking back over my path. No one but the birds knew where I’d been, and only I knew the kaleidoscope of feelings. A distant musk duck sent its mournful piping call across the water.

It was a swim I’ll never forget. Something to tell people about – maybe even the future grandkids. But how can I convey the intense, all-encompassing mix of agony, joy, elation, and calm that spun through my body to someone who hasn’t experienced it. It’s something only ice swimming addicts could relate to.

Ice swimming isn’t for everyone. It’s certainly something you need to get used to, and I strongly discourage anyone from attempting it without proper acclimation and training – but it’s extremely rewarding.

You learn about yourself, and come away with sharper, buzzing.

It’s a reminder of how adaptable the human body can be and how magnificent it is when mind and body work together. But more than anything for me, despite the discomfort and risk, it’s fun – a chance to feel alive in wild places surrounded by beauty, and to come back changed, even if just a little.