Play It Cool

At first we thought Jerome was messing with us so we would speed up, 

but there really was a baby goat!

In other news, the dirt track in Kenai is amaaaaazing fun.

Now this is more like it—cool and rainy.  I’ve pulled a fleece on over my sweatshirt here in the tent.  Layer upon layer of cozy protection is what I want, twelve months of the year.

My parents are great parents, don’t misconstrue the following anecdote.  We usually kept the thermostat at a cool 68 degrees in winter, which lasts five months in northern Michigan.  My room was at the northwest corner of the house (read: the coldest part), and by the time the furnace air reached my room it was lukewarm at best.  My complaints of cold toes were many times met with the rejoinder, “Well of course, you’re only wearing one pair of socks!”  

When December rolled around during college in New York City, I’d wear two sweaters, like you do.  Actually, it turns out, like no one does; you could practically hear the record scratch as people openly gaped while I peeled off coat, then sweater, then sweater in a steamy bar.

When Matt and I bought our house, exciting new avenues of frugality opened up.  Leaving it at 45 degrees was just a hair too low to keep the lesser bathroom pipes from freezing, unfortunately.  It also meant two sweatshirts and thermals before diving under the ice-cold bedding, carefully tucking the down comforter all around without even a hole for your nose.  The olive oil solidified in the kitchen cabinet, and since it was silly to heat the whole water tank just for the weekend, we’d boil some on the stove to wash dishes.

This is not to say that I like being cold.  Rather, I understand and appreciate it, and can work with it.  Wear a third jacket; eat some chocolate; run around; breath in deep and think about its quieting effect.

Yesterday I hiked up Mt. Cecil with friends, a classic pointy peak just across the street, a familiar feature we look upon every day.  There are still some patches of snow near the top.  I sweat buckets up the steep path but above the treeline we had a bit of rain accompanied by gusting winds blowing ethereal clouds of fog.  On the jagged shale summit perched a family of mountain goats, the baby eagerly hopping and galloping about.  We noticed hunks of shed fur clinging to sharp-edged rocks, whether trading their coats for lighter or heavier ones, we weren’t sure.  The three of us huddled above, double-coated and hooded, and the goats clambered down a bit to huddle below.