How cold was it?

So cold that they were selling igloos with a lifetime warranty.

So cold that we opened our freezer to warm up the house.

But I took my walk, just as I always do. And my dogs were happy to go, just as they always are. We all three have a large measure of western spirit: individuality, integrity, courage, silent dimeanor, with a dose of common sense and improvisation and coyote crazy.

Off we went into the 15 below morning. There was only a small breeze, which blew the artic mist past the treetops. The geese were huddled in icy clumps on the ice, their heads under their wings. I bet they were thinking that this was not south enough, thats for sure.

The sides of the river had ice, but the center was free flowing, as always. Probably from the upstream factory adding a few degrees to their pure Rocky Mountain Spring Water effluent.

The fox watches me closely, hoping that I would compromise my principles for once and toss him a handout like some of the other humans. 'No chance, not me.' 'You are wild so run off and act like it.' I would play him a harmonica tune like I sometimes do but I think I might be walking home with the harmonica stuck to my lip. Better not.

'Wooh, it is cold.' 'My fingers are starting to hurt.'

I read of a miner in Alaska that had his cabin burn down in -30 weather. He only had time to run outside in his robe and slippers. It was a 2 mile walk to the nearest neighbor, which was a resort. The janitors were still up when he arrived. They heard a slow heavy thump out front, which was this poor miners frozen feet pounding on the wooden porch. He had to lift his feet like chunks of ice attached to his knees. The janitors helped this poor guy inside and massaged his legs with warm heating oil for the next hour. When his legs thawed it took both of them to hold the miner down, for the pain. He was lucky, and walked on those legs the rest of his long life, minus a few toes.

Past the lake, over the dike, under the Cottonwood grove, through the meadow, almost home. 'Gez, my fingers really hurt.' I Climb the ridge, move out of the apple grove into a breeze that makes it feel colder. 'You know my fingers are kind of hard in these mittens.'

The black and white snowdogs are stopping every 10 feet or so to try to break out the ice that has accumulated between their toes. Could it be that my wife and daughters were correct in telling me I was loony to go out in this weather. My breath has formed long icicles on my mustache. This is starting to feel real Western. My wussy family is probably sitting in front of the TV drinking hot chocolate.

I start to run now because I am getting a little worried about these fingers. Up the driveway. Knock on the door with my elbow. Run up the stairs. Put these frozen digits under cold water.

I have an idea what that miner felt like. It does hurt like hell when skin thaws. I will call on my Western common sense, rather than my Western silence. Only a damn fool would not cuss and yell when something feels like this.

This is a story that my two daughters enjoy telling, over and over again, year after year. The time Dad acted like a wimp just because he got cold fingers.

Rock cold.