There is a small cabin up far into the mountains on the way to Mt. Adams in northeastern New Hampshire. You can stay a night, a week, or in the case of the keeper of the cabin and his pup an entire season. The one room cabin is kept barely above freezing, with a small stove that remains lit only in the hours of the night. Most days, the cabin makes home to alpine skiers, outdoorsmen, maybe ten people, allowing them to shelter themselves from the strong gusts that whip through the high elevation pine.

As the sun dips beneath the horizon, on clear nights, you can bundle up and take a short hike to a lookout point which extends past the high elevation tree-line. Removed from the shelter of the forest, winds scream to the mountain's crest pushing you, and the sparse population of knee high trees that struggle to cling to the rocky mountainous terrain, as a test of each's ability to hold on. The feeling as the wind slices past exposed skin is cold - the kind of cold that you fear only for its ability to freeze flesh, not because of discomfort. Gusts drop a powerful man to his knees, clinging just below the crest on all four, fighting one direction all to be left falling the other when the gust dies.

Rush, rush back to the cabin as night begins to overcome the day, there is warmth. Retreat into the safety of a closed door. Warm hands wrapped around a cup, a cup of stale black tea.