When I woke I could only see a faint blueness in the sky, it was not dawn yet. The cold, condensated air was biting. I adjusted the blankets covering me and burrowed down inside. I guessed it must be about ten degrees. I was camped in the middle of a roadside quarry, thick with red clay mud. Below me, the Chewaucan River bounced loudly over rocks as it tumbled its way out of the mountains. I tried to sleep a while longer, but my legs felt cramped and restless and the cold was unrelenting, so I sat up and pulled on my coat.

I retrieve my thermos full of tea from inside the foot box of my sleeping bag, and break open the seal. The warm inside is a nice contrast to the biting cold. The tea is sweet. I notice the outside of the thermos smells faintly like my…