40 Degrees is Swimming Weather in Hillsdale
Written by Lauren Smyth
It was 40 degrees outside when we jumped into Baw Beese Lake—and jumped into a brand-new adventure. We’d run three miles out of Hillsdale to reach the lake, and we ran three miles back soaking wet, shoes squelching on the sidewalk.
Out of curiosity, when I reached my dorm, I stuck a thermometer into my ear. It read 96. Not quite hypothermia.
Like cats, college students have many lives. There’s a reason why we can survive on noodle cups and boiled hot dogs, why we don’t need eight hours of sleep (supposedly), and why we can jump into winter lakes without getting sick. We’ve been sitting at our desks for too long, and our ambition transforms. Suddenly, for a few hours, we don’t want to be the best students. We want adventure. We want to try something new.
I was coming down with a cold when I left the dorm. It was early December, days before finals, and my eyes were blurred with cramming. I’d bundled up in running gear to see if I could jolt my immune system into working order with a 30-minute dose of cold and exercise.
I hadn’t gotten a hundred yards past the door when I met my roommate. She waved, I waved back, and she motioned for me to take my headphones off.
“You want to jump into Baw Beese Lake?” she asked.
“How far away is that?” I’d only ever driven there.
“Mm.” She shrugged. “Three-and-a-half miles.”
“So we run, jump in, run back?”
She nodded.
Why not? my brain whispered. I’d been sitting all day. I was sore and mentally exhausted. Why not get physically exhausted, too? If the campus cold wanted to take me down, I’d make those viral particles work for it.
We went back to the dorm, gulped some water, and trotted off toward the Niedfeldt men’s dorm. Two boys—one of whom was, inconveniently, an ultramarathoner—and another girl joined the party. Off we went at a gentle lope, winding through neighborhoods along the Baw Beese Trail.
It was chilly when we started. Someone in the group (you know who you are, but we love you anyway) had delayed our start, and the sun was setting. Bitter wind struck our bare legs—why had we all, as if we’d planned it, decided to wear shorts? —and I could feel my hands and feet swell. I was just at the edge of my conversation speed, and my responses came out in clipped sentences. At least I couldn’t see my breath. Yet.
Frozen snow and foam lined the edges of the lake. We stopped to stare at the water and consult. What if we got too cold? What if someone got a cramp? Who would come pick us up? How would they find us?
“I think Greg has a van,” someone suggested. “He’d come pick us up if anything happened.”
Greg, who was at least aware of the expedition, was also busy the entire evening. This did not disturb us. We stripped off our jackets and shoes, ran across the beach yelling mutual encouragement, and dove into the water.
Our heads bobbed to the surface, and our screams echoed. That was the one of the coldest things I’d ever felt, covering my whole body in a split second. But we were in it together. We were all soaked and shrieking and running back toward the beach, fighting the dense waves around our calves. We stopped to take a selfie, shivering so violently that we could barely hold ourselves still for the photo, and then made for home.
It was dark before we made it back to campus. We ran cautiously, feeling for slipping ice under our shoes. Maybe it was a good thing the return journey was uphill, because the temperature had dropped to around freezing and our clothes were brittle with frost. We were hungry, but we were still having fun. Hot cocoa, sugar cubes, and so many carbs were in our future. The thought of hot food kept us going.
My roommate and I lived the farthest from the lake. We sprinted the last hundred yards or so, leaping over cracks in the sidewalk and reaching for the post that marked the end of our journey. We staggered over the finish line and collapsed, laughing, hands on our knees. We’d made it.
Now—pasta.
I didn’t end up catching the cold. My roommate, who had already caught it, felt better after the run.
If you’ve been looking for a sign, here it is: Do that thing just because you can. Make friends. Leave your comfort zone. Accept adventures as they come and thrive in the moment—even if that “moment” is as simple as shared joy over an ice-cold lake.
Lauren Smyth, ’25, is an economics major and journalism minor. Outside of starting arguments in philosophy class, she enjoys curling up on a bench outdoors (sun, rain, or snow) to write novels or articles for her blog, www.laurensmythbooks.com.
Published in March 2025