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It has been one wicked windy few days.  Utterly beautiful blue skies, frosts in the mornings, and an all around visual delight.

But bundle on up before you go out there, it has been one wicked windy few days.

You would think that those of us who have lived here our entire lives would be used to it.  However, I have come to the personal conclusion that there are things you never get used to and will push against to your last breath.  For me, the wind is one of those.  I’m good with cold, I’m okay with hot (yes, we do get hot.  Think back.), but when you add those 52 mph gusts to a 32 degree temp, I’m out.  Could I please have the 14.1 degrees straight in calm air?  [Want to know where I got that number?  Here’s a cool toy for those of us who live in the wind.  Wind chill / temp conversion tool.  You can thank me later.]

However, I would like to point out a couple bright spots in the midst…
1)  You look very healthy when you come indoors (once you get the hair back off of the wrong side of your head and other humans can see your face) with a flattering rosy glow.
2)  If you’re having trouble waking up in the morning and getting into your day, save the five bucks for the coffee and just step outside.
3)  When you take your dogs up to that stretch between Corbett and Aims for the run down to the river,  that calm clear cold under a clear-star-sky moon will absolutely redeem any lingering annoyance with the environment.

Larch Mountain blocks the east wind completely where the dogs and I take our nightly hike to the Sandy River.  Completely.  We pile into the van in the chaos and drive up the hill, and we step out into pure peace.

"Hey, what do you want from a cell phone in the dark?"

“Hey, what do you want from a cell phone in the dark?”

It is such a gift.  The waxing moon has lit the trail almost to no-flashlight level, the river is sparkling under the occasional mist, the rocks are beautifully frosted, it’s the perfect temperature for the long hike back up the hill, and everyone else is huddled at home around the woodstove, leaving the trail, and the forest, and the river,
to just us.

It is a good thing.