It's that time again: January

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

- The Cremation of Sam McGee - Robert W. Service

If you read that poem, you will see why it's on my mind every January without fail.

It's that time of year again where the extreme cold warnings are out (-27 Canadian, -17 American) and I feel like I'm being punished for having skin even in my own home. I have to take a shower before I'm warm enough to sleep. My face feels like it's being punched.

I sniffle a lot.

At night, the ice weasels will come.