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I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn't crouch over one like a snow leopard waiting to pounce.
D.H. LAWRENCE, letter to John Middleton Murry, Oct. 3, 1924
Below -60° cold will find the last microscopic touch of oil in an instrument and stop it dead. If there is the slightest breeze, you can hear your breath freeze as it floats away, making a sound like that of Chinese firecrackers. As does the morning dew, rime coats every exposed object. And if you work too hard and breathe too deeply, your lungs will sometimes feel as if they were on fire.
- I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone,
- Going home, where the new york city winters aren’t bleedin’ me.
Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life, and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive.
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