you can run . . .

But the subarctic air will be waiting for you to return.

Just spent a few weeks Outside, in San Fran and Colorado, loving the sun and the people and keeping one eyeball on temperatures around Fairbanks and the surrounding country, which has hosted the coldest air in the world since just after Christmas.

Thanks to our talented housesitters, Bruno and Judith, our house still features liquid water, and thanks to angels known as Carolyn and Cobb, Poops is still alive and sassy. 

What's there to do when the air at the airport is -42 and the house is -35? Go running, of course. Skiing doesn't work–the air robs the snow/ski interface of the heat needed to glide, and my hands get cold anyway. But running is perfect.

And Poops indicated her readiness by grabbing a scarf that was stopping a draft under a door and shaking it in her mouth. I geared up. On my feet, the same setup as within my mountaineering boots on my only trip up Denali–a thin nylon sock, plastic grocery bags to act as vapor barrier, a slightly warmer sock that will stay dry. Running shoes on top of that. A layer of wool underwear under fleece, a cashmere sweater my sister gave me, a neck gaitor pulled up over the nose, knit cap. Poops, like most dogs, needs nothing other than to keep moving. She is delighted to get out in this frigid air. Just don't make her stop. 

We run southward, toward the university and the sunshine. Snow squeaks like foam underfoot as we hit the dog trails. 

Popping out on the south slope of the university, the yellow sunlight splashes on us. It provides not a butterfly kiss of heat; we're about a month away from that. A layer of ice fog oozes over the landscape, reaching the top of the tallest spruce. The sun is two fingers above the horizon at solar noon. Traffic sounds linger as if the air is too thick to let them die.

We stop in the sunshine and savor the light. Christmas bulbs of white hang from my eyelashes, obscuring the view of the Tanana Valley. Poops lifts a rear paw as if she's stepped on a thorn. We turn, and head toward home, the yellow light on our backs, our breaths adding to the ice fog.