I Spent a Night Car Camping in 5°C — Here’s What No One Tells You About Sleeping Bags

Ahh… okay, truth: I thought this would be quick and smug. Park, unzip, sleep. Wake up to a perfect sunrise, two photos, a story to post. Done.

Umm, not how it went.

I drove up to a small clearing by a lake around dusk. The kind of place that looks perfect in photos and a bit lonelier in person. The sky had that bruise-blue you only see at high altitudes. Air was sharp, the kind that feels like a paper cut on your lungs when you take a big breath. Temperature read 5°C on my phone and I thought, Nice, crisp night. Perfect practice run.

I’d brought what I called a “3-season” sleeping bag (because marketing makes you optimistic), a foam sleeping pad, a thermos of coffee, a headlamp, and that ridiculous confidence people get when they’ve watched one too many camping videos. I folded the back seats flat, laid the pad down, zipped the bag, and arranged my little kit like a neat Instagram flatlay. Ahh — that smug, dangerous calm. I was ready. For twenty minutes.

When Confidence Meets Cold

Around 10:30, the car went quiet in a way that doesn’t happen in the city. Quiet makes you notice small things: your own breath, the tick of something settling, the sound of condensation sliding down glass. My breath was painting soft clouds inside the car. The sleeping bag felt okay at first. Then my nose got cold. Then my knees. Then the cold just pooled at my feet like someone had left a freezer vent open near the boot.

Umm… real talk: cars are metal shells. They look cozy from the inside but they behave like a fridge if the outside is cold. The metal steals heat. The floor conducts cold straight into your bones. I learned that the hard way.

At about midnight, I nudged the bag tighter and thought, I’ll sleep this off. That lasted until 1 a.m., when my toes went numb. I mean truly numb — like they belonged to someone else. I tried wiggling them, tucking them under my thighs, stuffing them into my jacket. Nothing worked. The bag’s label read comfort 10°C, limit 0°C. I was wedged right in the no-man’s-land between “comfortable” and “you might wake up regretting decisions.”

The Science of Suffering

Panic is weirdly quiet. It starts small — a thought about turning the engine on, a scroll through memory of articles about carbon monoxide, a flash of “what an idiot” at 1:14 a.m. I did not start the engine. Instead I wrapped the bag tighter, hugged a thermos (yes, like a ridiculous human), and brewed a plan that mostly involved self-pep talks.

Between 2 and 4 a.m., time became a slow, elastic thing. There were stretches of nothing, then a jolt of “Is that a noise?” followed by a tidal wave of boredom. I talked to myself. Not full sentences — whispers, mutters, a couple of frantic journal entries on my phone that read like a drunk diary. The wind would hit once, the car would give a tiny shudder, and I’d laugh at myself. That laugh is important — it kept me from panicking. It was survival humor. I remember thinking, This is the dumbest, loneliest, and most honest thing I’ve done in months.

Condensation was its own enemy. By 3 a.m., the windows were fogged like a bathroom after a hot shower. Tiny beads ran down the glass and dripped onto the seals. That moisture made the bag damp at the edges — and once insulation gets damp, it loses its power. I learned then that warm dry air is everything. You can have the best bag in the world, but if it’s wet, it’s useless.

Hard Lessons Learned at 5°C

• Check the comfort rating, not the hype on the label. If the comfort rating says 10°C and you’re expecting 5°C, assume you’ll be cold. Aim for a bag rated at least 5°C below the expected temp for car camping comfort.
• Insulate from below. Cars bleed heat through the floor. A decent foam pad or two layers of closed-cell foam changed the game for me. Even a folded yoga mat helps.
• Crack a window. Sounds counterintuitive, but condensation kills insulation. A tiny opening prevents moisture build-up and keeps the air breathable.
• Hot water bottle. I tucked one between my thighs and it literally saved the night. It’s simple physics and feels like a warm, forgiving hug.
• Layering trumps single-thick gear. Thermals, wool socks, a beanie — use them. Don’t dress for Instagram; dress for survival.
• Bring dry bags. Keep a spare change of clothes in a waterproof bag. If your clothes get damp, you need a dry option — fast.

The Dawn After the Freeze

At some point around dawn, the fog thinned. I woke to the softest, bluest light cleaning the sky. The frost had painted everything: blades of grass, the top of the lake, my car’s roof. I wiped the window with the heel of my hand and stepped out. My shoes hissed on the frozen grass. My face felt stiff, but the sunrise — man, it was cinematic in an unforced way. The cold had framed everything like a photograph with hard edges and honest colors. The steam coming off the lake looked like a thousand little ghosts.

I made coffee on a tiny stove, wrapped the sleeping bag around my shoulders like a cape, and let the heat creep back into my bones. The mug in my hands was hot enough to be holy. I remember thinking, I nearly froze, but this — this is why people do it. The reward wasn’t the brag; it was the purity of the moment. No filters. No curated caption. Just a cold world, a warm cup, and my own small, stubborn presence in it.

Would I Do It Again?

So would I do it again? Yes — but differently. Less stubborn, more prepared. The night taught me humility. It taught me that a “3-season” tag is not a promise and that gear is only as good as how you use it.

If you’re reading this because you want to try car camping in cold weather, do it. But do it with respect. Pack a hot water bottle, stack pads under your mat, choose a sleeping bag with a comfort rating well below the expected temp, and for god’s sake, keep a dry change of clothes.

I’ll probably laugh about this in a year. I’ll probably do it again next winter with a better bag and a sense of comic timing that says, Let’s not test physics again tonight. But I’ll still pack a thermos, because coffee tastes better when you earned it — and because even when you nearly freeze, the sunrise still pays you back.