Eight Degrees

It’s eight degrees out of doors.

This degree keeps people wrapped in blankets on their sofas. Warm drink in one hand and remote in the other. Generally, there are two groups of people willing to brave this Fahrenheit at night. The first have dependencies on nicotine. The remaining are pet owners. Both of which are being brought out into this cold by a force outside of themselves.

It’s eight degrees and instead of staying in, I am running out.

The sun has already set here. It may be closing out on California by now. I can’t count on the sun’s rays to warm the tip of my nose - the only exposed skin that the sun may have warmed.

I head just far enough out of the cities for the sky to open up to the stars. The cold is beautiful.

My Petzl lights the way. Swaying back and forth with the rhythm of my stride. Bobbing in and out of the weight of my jacket’s hood. My warm exhale turns instantly to smoke before me. The beam of light catches the swirls as it leaves my body.

The combination of fog and light show convinces me KISS will spring from the next snow bank. I have the spectacle, most live performances lack, unfolding naturally before me. Moving strobe lights and fog machines. I considered dropping the red night-vision lens down for added affect, but decide that is a little too heavy metal for my mood.

It made for a dramatic hike. Could have also been an amazing horror film, but I didn't say that… since I know my mother will check her e-mail in twenty days and reply with a motherly voice of concern telling me all the things that could happen to me hiking alone at night. DANGER! DANGER!

A few have been here before me. Sparse tracks scatter over last night’s snow fall. Out of love for all the skiers in the world I avoid the nicely packed double lanes and stick to the fresh powder. The resistance feels good against my legs after a month under physical restrictions (I’m not breaking the rules; I’m sticking to the lower half!).

My breath gets heavy.
My heart gets fast.
My chest grows so warm that I can no longer feel the eight degrees.

My iPod remains in my pocket with the ear buds coiled neatly around the frame. Music follows my everyday. My career, my home, my car are rarely without. Naturally, I always reach for the mobile music when setting out for a hike, but I have never brought it out. From the very first crunch of my pink NorthFace boots, I know I will not be plugging my ears with the Swell Season or the Shostakovich that defines my everyday.

I love these sounds.
My breath.
My weight.
My pulse.
My existence within the sounds of the river’s current not yet frozen over, within the noises of the remaining winter wildlife, even within the faint sounds of civilization.

It’s eight degrees outside and I remember why I am willing to brave the weather and hike in solitude. It is my meditation. Here, my brain silences my everyday. All I notice is my body and my being.

And... maybe the occasional KISS concert...