I’ve reached the age where I don’t spend a lot of time and effort on existential thought processes anymore, the meaning of life and such.

But when you walk out the door into -30F/-34.4C (the “F” is for fuck, I’m an American, I don’t know what that “C” is for) you just can’t stop yourself from thinking, “There is no goddamn reason for this!”

30_below

I’m going out to warm up the Jeep. With a low confidence level I reluctantly twist the keys in the stiff ignition switch. It’s turning over! It started! Oh sure, it’s making the same noises that my 3 year old daughter made the first time I dropped her off at daycare, but that’s normal, right?

After 20 minutes of warmup time I flop my ass down on the hard foam seat that just yesterday afternoon was still perfectly warm, soft and pliable. I gingerly ease it into reverse, and ever so lightly press the accelerator pedal. Testing to see how tightly it’s frozen down to the ground, listening for clues telling me that the driveline is encased inside of a solid block of ice. It’s moving, nothing is broke!

I slowly roll out onto the road in front of the house, clump, clump, clump. I have to go slow for a bit yet. I’m still waiting for the tires to massage themselves back into some sort of symmetrical circular shape. No reason to go fast yet though, I’m also still waiting for the engine, transmission, transfer case and differentials to finish chopping up the oil into useable size pieces. This is a bunch of bullshit!

The moon lighting up all the snow is so bright, I bet I could sit out here and read, if my glasses weren’t so damn scratched up.

It’s dead calm and crisp, sound really travels in weather like this. I bet could hear a Pine Marten taking a piss in the snow a quarter mile away, if I wouldn’t have sat next to so many concert speakers, and worked construction for so many years.

It’s thirty below zero, and it’s fucking beautiful out this morning!