I’ve been telling anybody who will listen — fishwives, policemen, bus drivers, backpackers, whomever — how much I love the cold. “I love the cold,” I’ll say. “I’ll take cold any day over humid heat. I’m from Boston. We Northerners, we’re stout and hearty. Me, I like the cold.”
What I’m specifically referring to, of course, is a crisp fall day in New England. The crunch of leaves underfoot. Tart smell of apples in the air. Horses with shaggy fetlocks taking lumps of sugar from my hand. Wool mittens. Warm cocoa.
What I’m specifically not referring to is a barren 11,000-foot plateau at the border with Tibet. Sparse oxygen molecules whipping my exposed skin at gale force. Water pipes that freeze in the night. Concrete floors that send icicles of pain shooting up my calves.
But I am adjusting. I have not yet tried biking in this weather. The freeze-or-fry conditions of mountaineering seem in full effect: roast while moving; suffer when the wind hits your sweat.
For the time being I will just huddle in bed with my balaclava and electric blanket and wait for my blood to thicken. I love the cold.
