Frost, Hills, and a Chewed-Up Start
October 6 greeted us with our first frost of the season—just a whisper of white across the grass, crisp enough to make the coffee taste richer and the walk feel sharper. Dixie and I took full advantage, clocking an hour through one of the few routes around here with real elevation gains. Not many places in Lethbridge or Medicine Hat offer hills worth mentioning, so when the land lifts and dips just enough to challenge the legs and lungs, it feels like a small triumph. Joe joined for the first leg, and two cups of black coffee later, the morning ritual felt complete.
But nature giveth and nature gnaweth. Back at home, I discovered the mice had chewed through my windshield washer lines. The pump still hums with purpose, but only a few weak spurts make it to the glass—like a faucet with a cough. It’s a small annoyance, but one that reminds me how even the tiniest creatures can reroute our day. I’ll patch it up, of course, but part of me admires their persistence. They’re just trying to stay warm, same as the rest of us.
Frost, hills, and rodent sabotage—autumn’s off to a textured start.
Creeping Things and Clearing Space
The frost arrived, and so did the mice. I’ve trapped eight so far and a dozen of the new science ultra sonic Repeller's for the house and garage and out side plug ins, and after two quiet days, I think I got the whole family. They left a bit of damage—chewed washer lines, scattered droppings—but nothing catastrophic. I’m grateful the motorcycle wires were spared. Still, the cleanup has been intense. I’ve been tossing clutter, scrubbing corners, and trying to reclaim the garage as a place for tools and bikes, not nests and gnawed plastic.
Mice creep me out. It’s not just the mess or the damage—it’s the feeling they leave behind. That sense of something crawling, even when nothing’s there. I’ve got spider veins in my legs, and when my cholesterol’s high, I can feel the blood moving through them. It’s a strange sensation, like a whisper under the skin. Combine that with the thought of mice scurrying nearby, and sleep becomes a challenge. The body reacts, even when the mind knows the traps are set and the garage is sealed.
So I clean. I move. I walk. I drink my coffee and climb hills with Dixie. I try to shift the energy from discomfort to action. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. And in the quiet moments—when the frost settles and the pump hums—I remind myself that even the creepiest days can be cleared, one sweep at a time.
Cabbage Chips, Elevation Gains, and a Metabolic Dash
This morning’s 4 km hike wasn’t just a walk—it was a weighted adventure. With 14 kg (30 lbs) strapped to my back, I clocked the distance in 55 minutes. Not a runner’s pace, but the heart rate told a different story: 33 minutes in the easy zone, 15 minutes in aerobic territory, and a peak of 160 bpm. That uphill stretch pushed me into a zone I usually reserve for faster efforts, which made the whole thing feel like a quiet triumph.
I came prepared—sort of. A pocketful of cabbage chips and a hot coffee in hand felt like quirky fuel for the journey. But halfway through, my metabolism decided to kick into high gear. Let’s just say the final stretch turned into a brisk march home, with my body sending increasingly urgent signals. It’s funny how the mind narrates these moments: elevation gains, heart rate zones, and then suddenly, “get home now.”
The elevation profile tells the tale—starting at 906 meters, dipping to 824, and climbing back again. Not many routes around here offer that kind of terrain, so it felt good to earn those gains. Whether the noon walk happens is still up in the air, but for now, the day’s off to a strong, slightly chaotic start. And honestly, that’s kind of perfect.
Sun on My Face, Dog in the Frame
After the weighted hike and the metabolic dash, I wasn’t quite done. The sun had come out strong—low and golden, casting long shadows across the coulee. Shade still held a chill, so I kept my beanie on, but the warmth on my face felt like a reward. I paused to take a photo, letting the sun look straight at me while I soaked in its heat. Had to double back a bit to get Dixie in the frame—she’s part of the story, after all—and then we kept climbing, weaving through patches of light and shadow.
There’s something grounding about those moments. The elevation gains were real, the heart rate stats still fresh in my mind, but this part was quieter. Just me, the dog, and the shifting light. It’s funny how a walk can start as a workout and end as a meditation. I’ll likely add another post later—maybe to track how the day unfolds or how the second walk goes. But for now, this one’s about warmth, movement, and the small effort it takes to turn around and include your companion in the picture.
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