“Never give up the opportunity for a wild swim.”

This has been my guiding principle for the past few years. If you are going on a hike near a lake, river, bay, or ocean, plan for a swim. At the very minimum this means to be open to the idea of a spontaneous skinny dip. Spontaneous works best in the summer. In the off season, especially in winter, a wild swim takes more planning. Even with the right gear and adequate physical training, some swims just don’t and probably shouldn’t happen.

I’ve been swimming year round in a local lake for the past two years. It began on the first day of spring in 2019—a rare 80-degree March day in Olympia. It was my first swim of the year and I told my swimming buddy that the only promise was would make that I might get in and, if I did, I was going to scream a lot. She said matter of factly, “Oh. I’m just going to get in.” This had never occurred to me.

I did get in and I did scream and thrash around a lot. But seeing how calm my friend was—as if the 50-degree-F water was tropical warm—I wondered what it would take to be like her. She attributed it to her cold-water tolerance/love to her Nordic heritage. Unable to claim such hearty cultural or genetic traits, I found my way to the solid tips on cold-water swimming from the Outdoor Swimming Society and eventually developed my own set of rules that works for me. And by “works” I mean allow me to survive and enjoy the swim. And by “swim” I mean getting into the water; doing a certain number of strokes or even putting my head under is not a must.

My rules for cold-water swimming are:

• Wear a swim suit or reasonable facsimile if in a public place. And a wool hat. I don’t use a wetsuit, booties, gloves, or other gear. Just “bioprene.”

• Have an exit strategy that includes a huge towel or DryRobe or hot tea and a plan to dress quickly then jump, jog, hike, or move vigorously afterward.

• Do not swim in water that is cloudy, turbid, strewn with algae, smells bad, or is crowded with power boats or lion’s mane jellyfish or dead fish.

• Swim with a buddy

• Get in the water slowly

• Don’t get far from shore until you feel confident you can return before your arms and legs go numb

• Plan to stay in just a few minutes or as long as you are “comfortable.” Trying to stay in for 15 minutes or swimming a certain distance is too “Type A” for me (and also possibly dangerous).

• Pay attention to your breathing, numbing in your hands and feet, and your ability to complete a sentence. If any of these seem “abnormal,” move toward shore and get out.

Conditions that I used to think mattered—water temperature, air temperature, rain, cloud cover—don’t really factor in anymore though a warm sunny day does make for an automatically pleasant swim.

So, what happened at Lily Lake?

I had a wool hat and a “reasonable” facsimile of a bathing suit. I had not tea and a plan to hike vigorously back to the trailhead after my swim. The water was clear. My husband was hiking with me—but not planning to swim. Standing at the edge of the lake in my warm coat a swim just seemed wrong.

The access to the water was suboptimal. I tried to visualize each step—the getting undressed, the quick but careful walk into the water, the place where I could safely float freely away from the shore. But there was all this wood along the shore—fallen logs and limbs and pokey twigs that promised an awkward entrance, possible slipping on algae-covered logs, and potentially unpleasant impaling of me by the woody debris. The combination of being partly numb in the cold water and sustaining a flesh wound before a five mile hike back to our car was a major deterrent.

The risk of laying all this on my ectomorphic non-swimming husband was also a deterrent.

And there was this. Snow. I know I said weather didn’t really matter, but the sight of snow around the lake was not inspiring me to celebrate Spring 2021 with a wild swim.

And there was this: wind. The lake was glass-smooth when we arrived but the wind picked up the surface of the lake was mostly ripples. Yes, I can swim in ripples (even white caps) but getting out of the lake wet meant every iota of warmth my body produced would be blown away by the wind.

I almost talked my way around all these obstacles but there were other factors at play. I was tired. I was sad. I just didn’t feel like swimming. Certainly there are times when a plunge into cold water can boost your energy, elevate your mood, and provide “cold comfort,” but this was not that time. The Outdoor Swimming Society notes that, “how much cold an individual body can take will vary from day to day, depending on sleep, health, hangovers, stress, recent acclimatisation, what’s been eaten and time of day.” So mental state matters. Every swim will feel different—and I am grateful for that. Swimming year round puts you in touch with those personal changes and with the changes in the lake, too.

I do not regret not swimming in Lily Lake and urge any of you wild swimmers out there to remember to swim only when it feels right to you. Giving up the opportunity for a wild swim isn’t a “never” thing. It’s okay to walk away.

Here is the Lily Lake Loop hike description and map from the Washington Trail Association (WTA).