Gales of Chomolungma ferocity whipped down from the Roof of the World, sending snow devils to dance and frolic across the tundra high peaks and my wind chimes to sing in their bluster choir of cacophony. I brewed my lapsang souchong tea for the Himalayan motif and made a grateful note the temperatures had clawed out of the teens for the first time in two days. It was with resignation that for the first time in a season, a walkabout was right out for my agenda.
I hopped down valley to the winery. My friend and I talked politics and I helped her reach some things she could not without the aide of step stool, or a freakishly tall friend. I got to pour my own glasses. Fantastic.
Rented DVDs at the library. Picking up washer fluid for Old Scratch. It was there I lamented my lack of inclination toward a walkabout. Rain? I've got my hardshell. Snow? Layers and snowshoes. Mud? Got a certain pair of beat-up hikers for just such an occasion. Wind? Walking in a wooded area makes it not as bad, but during a winter's bluster, it's still not terribly favorable.
"It's that time of year, you know," the woman handing me my washer fluid said. "That biting wind."
"Yeh," I muttered. "One of those days."