Believe it or not, there are polar bears in North Carolina. Once every year, they crawl out of their dens – and living rooms – to swim in the frigid waters of Lake Chatuge.

Of course, I’m not talking about furry four-legged creatures, but the two-legged, slightly crazed humans who disrobe down to their trunks and plunge into a cold mountain lake each New Year’s Day.

This year I decided to join them. I was tired of the same old New Year’s routine — drinking champagne, banging on pots and pans, watching the ball drop. I needed a new tradition, and jumping into a half-frozen lake seemed as good as any. So I signed up for the Great Smoky Mountains Triathlon Club’s Polar Bear Swim — an out-and-back 50 meters in Lake Chatuge on the first day of 2002.

Hung over and half asleep, I drove two hours through the mountains and arrived at Lake Chatuge just before noon on New Year’s Day. Sixteen other shivering swimmers huddled around a campfire along the shore, trying to stay warm in 30-degree weather and flag-whipping winds. I squeezed in between a crew-cut Army cadet, two teenage girls, and an overweight man wearing Spandex.

“Do we tip-toe into the water or dive in?” asked one of the girls.

“Gotta hit it hard,” the cadet said stoically.

At least 100 spectators lined the lake, waiting to see a bunch of half-naked North Carolinians exercise like Eskimos. Minutes before the start, Polar Bear Swim coordinator Scott Hanna pulled a thermometer from the water: 46 degrees Fahrenheit.

The cold truth was starting to sink in: I really had to go through with this. I had to get in that water and swim 50 meters — two full swimming pool laps. Though I’d competed in dozens of triathlons, I never felt more nervous than at the starting line of the Polar Bear, a mere 50-meter swim. My teeth were chattering, my arms twitched, my goose-pimpled skin shook uncontrollably — and I hadn’t even touched my toes to the water yet.

Waiting made it worse. Just thinking about the swim made me cold. I jumped up and down, pretended to stretch, and even ran a few barefoot sprints along the rocky, frost-covered lakeshore to stay warm. Then, back at the boat ramp, I listened to a wife berating her husband as he undressed.

“You’re always the last one in the pool. You warm up your shower water before you get in every morning, for Chrissakes. How are you going to swim around in a freezing lake?”

But the husband would not be dissuaded. He quickly stripped off his shirt and shoes, handed them to his wife, and joined the other swimmers milling around on the boat ramp making jokes.

“Weather’s bit nipply out here, wouldn’t you say?”

“You got that right.”

“It takes some balls to be out here.”

“Yeah — blue, shriveled, marble-sized ones.”

At high noon, Polar Bear coordinator Scott Hanna — who was also participating in the swim — yelled “GO!” and we herded into the lake. Swimmers whooped and shouted as they plunged in.

I high-stepped out as far as I could, then dove headlong into the lake. When I popped up, my mind completely shut down. I was all body and instinct. Panic poured through my muscles. I was hyperventilating and hypothermic. Frantically I threw my arms in front of me and swam toward the orange buoy. It looked a lot further away than a pool-length.

I was breathing too rapidly to put my face underwater; instead I was splashing across the lake with a spastic, all-arms, head-out-of-the-water stroke. Frenzied swimmers collided with me as we rounded the buoy. Trickles of laughter from onshore spectators drifted across the water.

On the long swim back to the boat ramp, my adrenaline-fueled muscles slowed. Icy blood coursed through my veins. My arms slapped against the water. I floundered forward, meter by meter. Finally my knuckles scraped concrete, and I felt my brain click back on.

It was the longest minute of my life.

Blue-faced and panting, I put on my clothes and watched the rest of the swimmers slugging toward shore. Rescuers in oar boats threw life jackets and float rings to struggling swimmers. Two guys had to be helped to shore. The teenage girls — 15-year-old Cory Hargett and 17-year-old Lydia Garrett of Hayesville — stumbled out of the water together, holding hands and hugging each other. The army cadet was close behind.

After three minutes, everyone had made it back — except three especially cold-blooded Polar Bears. Sam Brenner, Jeremiah Smith, and Doug Papicek were still wading offshore to see who could stay in the lake the longest. Brenner kicked his feet in the air, as if lounging in a warm bathtub. Smith and Papicek treaded water side-by-side, their breath visibly condensing in the cold air. After five minutes, nobody had flinched.

To break the tie, the three swimmers raced back to the boat ramp. Papicek  an Ironman triathlete from Atlanta — climbed out of the water first, followed by 24-year-old Smith of Grape Creek, and Brenner, a thick-skinned Polar Bear from New York.

Then we all crouched around the fire, sipping hot cider and feasting on barbecued burgers. After numbing myself in the lake, I felt the glow of life so much more intensely. Every sensation was heightened. Scalp tingles surged electricity down my spine.

For the next hour, I warmed myself inside a circle of 16 other hardy, grizzled beasts. I was one of them now. I was a Polar Bear cub.

I couldn’t wait to get back home and hibernate.

(Will Harlan writes about the outdoors for The Smoky Mountain News. He can be reached at wharlan@hotmail.com)