Shooting the moon

The snow crunched under my feet in that certain way.  My jacket protested every move I made with an extra-crisp stiffness.  It proved my suspicion beyond a shadow of a doubt.

It was colder outside than what the website told me.  They can't fool me.

Friday night as I walked out to The Road They Do Not Plow, I briefly wondered why I insist on doing this on the coldest night.  Every time.  But then, it's January in North Dakota and why should I expect anything less?

I sunk my tripod into two feet of snow.  At least I knew it wouldn't blow over.

I yanked the thick fuzzy mitten off my right hand and traded it for a lighter one that would allow me to push buttons and spin dials.  My fingers were already numb.  I looked back toward the warm glow of the house.  Why in the world was I doing this?

Soon enough, as I fumbled around with the gear I had hauled, my beast of a dog realized we weren't going for a walk.  She'd had enough of this nonsense.  I was abandoned as she headed back to her cozy bed of straw in the barn.

And then, I was reminded why I torture myself so.



Standing here under an endless prairie sky, with coyotes howling off in the distance, I feel so small - but not alone.



I stand in awe when a long exposure shows a dark night for what it truly is, in ways my human eyes cannot see.



I don't care how cold it is.  Whether I walk away with decent photos or not, this is worth fingers that hurt for the next two days.  Although, I might stick a thermometer out the front door after I get back to the house, to see how cold it really is.  You know, just for bragging rights.