I’ve written previously about my good friend, Jack Frost. What a guy! Whenever we meet, I greet him with open arms and a broad smile of welcome! Well, OK—so maybe I welcome him with fists squinched into my armpits and a face contorted by an icicle-framed grimace. That’s beside the point. I assure you that my enthusiasm at meeting my old buddy Jack Frost will never abate.
One of the reasons I like him so much is his ability to effortlessly create a hyper-macho persona for his exclusive circle of friends…like me. The very sight of a man who appears nonchalant and competent in the arctic creates a certain mystique that cannot be reproduced in any other setting. I remember when I first saw the grainy sepia-toned photos of Robert Peary on his 1909 expedition to the North Pole. I was awed by the explorer’s leathery skin; the frost encasing his beard and fur parka ruff; the eyes squinting into a flurry of horizontally driven ice pellets toward some far-off destination. It seemed to me that I was viewing the blessed visage of one of the bravest and most heroic of mortals.
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