Cold Everest

Monday, 27 January 2003

’tis cur­rent­ly 1° out­side my win­dow. cou­pled with the wind chill and the weight of my fenc­ing bag, i am not look­ing for­ward to the 20 min­ute walk to work to­day. i haven’t been out­side for about 24 hours but i still feel like pret­ty much any old guy from a Jack London short sto­ry. Lost in the Yukon, in weath­er so cold spit freezes be­fore it hits the ground and me with nary a match to start a fire. so i slow­ly de­scribe how i freeze to death in ag­o­niz­ing fash­ion. or may­be i feel like that guy who climbed ever­est, went snow­blind and froze to the moun­tain. peo­ple came and looked at him, as­sumed he was dead and left to pick him up lat­er. the on­ly thing is, he could see them but not com­mu­ni­cate be­cause he was frozen. some­how, he man­aged to start mov­ing and made it back to base camp. he lost his arms, legs, ears, tip of the nose, pret­ty much any­thing that sticks out. i think i would’ve just stayed on the moun­tain.

i think i heard some­where that Everest is so high that some­times the jet stream will dip down and knock peo­ple off. i can just pic­ture that crotch­ety old North wind with his dis­tend­ed cheeks leer­ing as an­oth­er climber is puffed off the moun­tain like so much dry­er lint.