Early on while reading "Black Eagle," the sixth in author Jack Slater's Jason Trapp thriller series, I began to think of my discussion with my friend Torg Hinckley about the really gritty film he'd seen with his dad over the weekend at Schaible Auditorium on the University of Alaska Fairbanks campus. Torg described the scene as prisoner Ivan Denisovich picked through the gruel in front of him. The theme he didn't have to describe. We were stuck inside that day. No recess. Too cold, minus 30 degrees or some such. Miss Fenton, our fifth-grade teacher, probably dug out one of the movie reels we had to watch every year. She'd warn us offhandedly, "Exposed skin freezes in 20 seconds out there." Of course, we always tested it, covering up after a minute or so. None of us really wanted to risk frostbite. But that's what made Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's novel so interesting to us. Here was a guy who dealt with cold on a completely different level. In fact, "A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" gave us a better concept of cold than anything, even during cold snaps like the one the little city in central Alaska we were then experiencing. "That's real cold," I imagine I said. Torg probably responded with several expletives. I later read the book, and it sticks with me. I imagine Slater did, too. Black Eagle is at times as harsh as anything Solzhenitsyn wrote about Ivan's day. The description raw. The detail harsh, especially one where Trapp suffers an intense beating outside the walls of the remote prison where he's been locked up somewhere in the wilds of Siberia. I loved every bit of it. Though I must admit I had trouble navigating the final quarter of the novel. It was stressful. I suppose I shouldn't have been wanting to crawl out of my skin or needing to put down the book just so I could breathe. I mean, I know Jason Trapp is a CIA operative of intense skill and training. But damn. I do know cold. I do know that one mistake and the human body will go straight Popsicle. Me and Torg one night about that time in our lives pulled a drunk guy out of a snowbank and somehow dragged him over to a building called the "Sub" on the campus and let him melt in the entry. It was late. We roamed UAF because his parents were resident advisors at MacIntosh Hall, and we were 12. We knew every inch of the grounds. The drunk guy doesn't really rate mention, at least in my collection of memories. But he would have died. It was past midnight. The north is a strange mistress. I consider trying to explain this when somebody in California says, "I love the cold" or "I love rain." Naw. Slater's book rates a 10 in intensity. It's my favorite so far. Now I'm thinking of the time when my mom said, "It'll be OK honey. Somebody will give us a ride." She had just closed down the Howling Dog Saloon in Ester. We had no car. We got a ride to Sheep Creek Road but still had another seven miles to our cabin. I was 10, my sister 7. None of us was dressed for 30 below and ice fog. We tried walking home. When my sister stopped, I grabbed her hand and turned around. I felt like yelling at my mom. I don't recall if I did. Would've taken too much energy. She followed. Back on the highway, some truck stopped and took us back to Ester. It was about 3 a.m. We knocked on doors. Somebody let us crash on the floor. Cold can be a serious antagonist.