By Maisie Ramsay
It was about this time last year that Adam, Aaron and I decided November was a perfectly reasonable time to hike up Mount Yale.
Adam is my husband.
Aaron is a guy who knows a thing or two about cold weather, having spent the summer on an Alaskan glacier.
I’m an idiot.
“I’m an idiot,” I thought to myself, as I leaned into a frigid gale with all the cooling power of liquid nitrogen. The wind sucked the heat from my body until my teeth chattered like a wind up desk toy. My fingers, stuffed into flimsy gloves with all the insulation power of tissue paper, were bone white and immobile with cold. I kept imagining myself as a human popsicle, blown off the mountain and permanently iced to a boulder some thousand feet below.
To my horror, I began to cry.