Day 131: I am not enjoying being penned in the house by weather, but at least I'm getting projects done. It's wet-chilly, the kind of clammy cold which I am convinced is under proprietary license to western Washington; a cold which goes through all your layers, Goretex, microfiber fleece, wool, polypro, epidermis, dermis, bones. It is not a cold which invites you to hike. A warming pace generates perspiration which in turn chills down without evaporating, demanding that you hike faster and therefore perspire more heavily, and consequently chill down more quickly as your clothing becomes soaked with sweat. It is a no-win cold, an unrelenting, oppressing, weighty cold, a burden not even coffee and chicken soup can lighten. The thermometer (a brazen liar!) reports 40 degrees. It feels like 20, a wet, soggy, sodden, soaking, pervasive 20, but it doesn't freeze. Freezing would be a kindness it would never willingly convey. I don't like stepping out in it even just to fill the bird feeders, so I stay indoors and keep my hands busy with yarn while my thoughts search out lichens in dimly-recalled warmth.
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