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.