Cold is no excuse. There’s not an hour in the woods or on the water worth rolling over after the alarm and slinking up behind 4 a.m.’s ugly sister, maybe tomorrow. No, no, no, we get up and get into our wool-and-Lycra-blend socks and long underwear – eyes swole, head still soupy – shuffle to the kitchen for coffee and lean on the counter, waiting for some toast to put peanut butter on.
It’s winter boss. Good and deep and cold, cold, cold. And in the end, the worth of the day, the measure of life, hard-fought and earned, is slowly revealed as blood returns to your fingers and toes and face on the drive home. Fish or no fish. Deer or no deer. Geese or no geese. We walk into the house, giant as Paul Bunyan, smelling like fresh air and refusing to admit just how crazy we might actually be.