East-coast winter nights - Alaskan Moonlight by Eric Matthes

There are parts of the evening routine in this life that I will always love, especially nights when I cook. I like priming the stove, enjoying the big soft whispering yellow flame, watching as it throws dancing shadows on the trees in front of me and lights up my face for all the wood gnomes and fairies to see. I like it when the flame dies out and the dancing shadows disappear, leaving only the quiet steady roar of the small blue flame. After cooking, I listen to the fire die out, gasping for last breaths of vaporized fuel, the flame finally dying out, leaving me in darkness as the stove begins to crinkle in its thermal contraction. Too soon, I take the lid off the pot and dig in. I blow on the first spoonfuls many times but not enough to keep from burning my tongue. I enjoy the first soupy cheesy bites slowly, while the final dry mouthfuls of pasta and onion go down quickly. I clean my teeth with a crisp green apple, gazing at the cold winter night sky, watching the planets and planes near east coast too-busy cities, watching the waxing and waning of the moon and following Orion’s progress across the sky, finally returning to my world brushing my teeth, putting final small items away, and bending into the tent for a satisfied warm-in-the-belly evening of writing, chess, Spanish, reading, and maybe some map-folding for tomorrow’s leg of the journey.

Lying in my sleeping bag for the first time each night, before writing or anything else, I wait for warmth in the crisp what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here-now air, even inside the tent. In this dark state of temporary repose, I laugh again at what I have undertaken, the scope of which I forget in the zen of routine details like cooking and riding. As I lay there I picture the whole ride on a map in my mind, and I agree with all the people I meet who say, “That’s a long way!” But I smile knowing it may happen, and even if I don’t make it to Alaska the trip will end with me trying.

After all the studying I blow out the candle, happy in the simplicity of burrowing into a sleeping bag and finding myself warm sleeping outside in twenty-degree air. I fall asleep just happy to be alive.

	Excerpt: East-coast winter nights
	Many people have asked what it was like to bicycle through the winter. I spent a lot of time in my tent! I was on the road around eight or nine in the morning, and looking for a place to camp around three or four in the afternoon. But it was absolutely wonderful to focus on simple things, like cooking a warm meal in the cold woods after setting up camp:
	There are parts of the evening routine in this life that I will always love, especially nights when I cook. I like priming the stove, enjoying the big soft whispering yellow flame, watching as it throws dancing shadows on the trees in front of me and lights up my face for all the wood gnomes and fairies to see. I like it when the flame dies out and the dancing shadows disappear, leaving only the quiet steady roar of the small blue flame. After cooking, I listen to the fire die out, gasping for last breaths of vaporized fuel, the flame finally dying out, leaving me in darkness as the stove begins to crinkle in its thermal contraction. Too soon, I take the lid off the pot and dig in. I blow on the first spoonfuls many times but not enough to keep from burning my tongue. I enjoy the first soupy cheesy bites slowly, while the final dry mouthfuls of pasta and onion go down quickly. I clean my teeth with a crisp green apple, gazing at the cold winter night sky, watching the planets and planes near east coast too-busy cities, watching the waxing and waning of the moon and following Orion’s progress across the sky, finally returning to my world brushing my teeth, putting final small items away, and bending into the tent for a satisfied warm-in-the-belly evening of writing, chess, Spanish, reading, and maybe some map-folding for tomorrow’s leg of the journey. Lying in my sleeping bag for the first time each night, before writing or anything else, I wait for warmth in the crisp what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here-now air, even inside the tent. In this dark state of temporary repose, I laugh again at what I have undertaken, the scope of which I forget in the zen of routine details like cooking and riding. As I lay there I picture the whole ride on a map in my mind, and I agree with all the people I meet who say, “That’s a long way!” But I smile knowing it may happen, and even if I don’t make it to Alaska the trip will end with me trying. After all the studying I blow out the candle, happy in the simplicity of burrowing into a sleeping bag and finding myself warm sleeping outside in twenty-degree air. I fall asleep just happy to be alive.
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