Well, we're there. Fat February--the shortest month of the year is also the longest. How does that happen? Some people find it like a drip torture, but I'm determined to enjoy it. A little warm spell melted the crust so that I don't get my boots stuck under the ice pack as I'm exploring. I've found some more artifacts to accompany the Whippet. There's this old cabin back in the woods, ramshackle and drooping. In the summer, the turkey vultures return to nest in the chimney and you can see them flying overhead gracefully in search of carrion or heart-attack hikers. It's amazing how they look so truly elegant lofting in the air currents and so ugly when they're kickin' it on the roof or on the ground.
So anyway, I've found this original old coca-cola cooler under the porch of the drooping cabin. I'm told by one of my neighbors the cabin is owned by Mad Jack, a loony former architect who lives most of the time in Philadelphia but comes up once in a while. I spotted him there once and tried talking with him. I didn't get much out of him. He stood on the delapidating porch staring at me. And staring. And staring.
"Well, so long, then," I said.
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