Frozen Puddles

Sunrise this morning (taken by Nate Chambers). I

haven't downloaded my own yet.

I am usually a morning person but this chest cold in combination with the sun not bothering to rise over the mountain peaks until nigh 10:30 or 11 am is doing me in and it's only November. This morning my alarm went off first, I hit the snooze until it no longer rang, feeling the warmth of my bed. Then the paper star lamp went on bathing my room in mellow light and still I resisted opening my eyes, slipping from my dream world. The radio came on and by now the Disreputable Dog was getting anxious, stretching at maximum tag ringing capacity, pushing his wet nose under the comforter, sighing loudly. The Disreputable Cat didn't really care whether I got up or not but since she was awake it was a good time to attack my feet or to see if I would provide her with her own live heating pad. And slowly, like from the depths of a deep well, I pulled myself awake, coughing up deep meaty, almost edible coughs and reluctantly surrendered my bed. Where upon, his job done, the Disreputable Dog immediately went into his kennel and went back to sleep until summoned for his morning walk.

A November frozen shore in Quebec (2005)

For the first time in two weeks it was neither snowing nor raining and the whole world had turned crisp and twinkling with the star footprints of Jack Frost. The puddles had all frozen into panes of white that are absolutely delightful to smash. Frozen puddle jumping is one of those delightful activities that is so much fun you almost feel guilty about it. I mean, smashing puddles? That sounds almost ominous, like a predilection for violence. The Disreputable Dog, no fool, goes for the deeper puddles where there might still be some water under the freeze and digs himself a fresh drink while I happily clink and clatter through the puddles around him. We gambol our way through the frozen neighborhoods, the water saturated soil crunching delightfully beneath our feet, the streets dark and empty but for ourselves and the occasional rabbit. Sunrise was not until much later - one of the advantages of living at such high latitudes is that at this time of year, although the sun never makes it very high in the sky, there are very prolonged sunrise-sets (see top pic)...sometimes one fades into the other.

A crisp November morning in Newfoundland (2005)

Interestingly the change of seasonal light seems to have a strong effect on the animals as well as the humans. The Disreputable Cat is no longer batting the window shade over my bed two hours before I wake and seems mildly disgruntled that I do get out of bed. The Disreputable Dog likewise will sleep all morning long if my various waking devices don't go off. He only bothers to get up because he figures someone has to get my sorry bum out of bed because that's why I have all those devices going off, right? And then he promptly returns to bed, snoring slightly because he has propped his chin up on the edge of his kennel.

Daylight & Layers

At 3:45pm today the sun slipped behind the mountains. It's not really dark at that time however we are losing about 7 minutes of daylight a day. More then that if you count how much time the sun is actually above the mountains. It's very noticeable. I find this time of year harder then winter. In winter there is snow and the reflectance of moonlight off of it. Now the trails are dark and invisible. My body wants to hibernate & I struggle my way out of my warm bed in the morning, clawing my way from the bottom of consciousness. I have little tricks I use to help me adjust to the darkness. I have a light star on a timer that goes on 15 minutes prior to my alarm. By the time my alarm goes off it has started to settle it's way into my subconscious, mimicking the rising of the sun giving off the false impression of warmth & heat.

This morning after my morning walk with the Disreputable Dog, during which I realized my layers were no longer suitable for the weather, I dug out the following necessary items from a box under my bed:
-down vests, down jackets, wool jackets
-my hats, each of a different thickness depending on the cold
-my ear band because no matter the hat it won't keep the cold air off the ears while bicycling in heavy duty wind
-my reflective suspenders for commuting
-my headlamps because it's easy to get stuck somewhere without light at this time of year
-quilted & flannel lined pants
-the 3 layered gloves

I'm ready now...the pockets of all of my coats contain headlamps and handkerchiefs and you will not find me anywhere in this state without a wool hat until May. Now the layer of skim ice on the ponds can freeze over and I will rejoice with my ice skates, the snow can come & I will rejoice with my skis.