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A few nights ago, as store heaters clicked on behind locked doors, and the climate-controlled cabs of passing cars displayed their temperatures in precise, digital readouts, a woman froze to death in Billings, Montana. Less than three weeks earlier, it was a man. He lay down on a sidewalk, pulled a satiny sleeping bag - the kind I might use on a summer night when my only care is wondering if clouds will roll in and ruin a star trails picture - up over his head, and shivered until he died. It's been a hell of a winter in Montana, and...

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Naturally, I'm afraid of the dark. Not so much that I refuse to get up during the night and blunder to the bathroom, or tremble at the thought of camping, or hurry out of the afternoon woods before the long shadows of trees join hands, turning shade into inky pools of impenetrable blackness. But when the sun sets an ancient part of me remembers the prey my ancestors were - recalls a time when survival hinged upon hearing the scrape of claw at the mouth of a cave or the rapid breath of a bear eager to pounce. It remembers...

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When I was sixteen, my hay fever - allergies to Vermont's lush timothy - became so severe that I could no longer buck bales for local dairy farmers. I tried it on a June afternoon when the ever-present threat of thunderstorms meant going at double-time, stacking bales in the sweltering loft of a wooden barn before rain dampened them and could, on some distant, winter night, cook them to the point of combustion. With sheer North Country determination, refusing to be deemed a "wuss" by my friends in the loft with me, I soldiered through that day, staggering out of...

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There are some places on Earth where happy, childhood memories are anchored so firmly that we should never revisit them. We should let them stand in our minds, forever undiluted by age and perspective, remaining precisely as they were during one very specific moment in time. With years in between, even if these places look the same, I promise they won’t feel the same and, if you’re at all like me, harboring a romantic notion that our youthful worldview was generally better, you’ll quickly be disabused. You’ll pick them apart, the idyllic replaced by the real, and come away having...

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I have never been entirely sure, despite a certain amount of supporting geologic evidence, that Northern Vermont’s Green Mountains are an extension of the Appalachians. So be it I say, in this contemporary age when facts and proof no longer always walk hand in hand, for mountains like Mansfield, Camel’s Hump, and Sugarloaf. Let them – and all others south – belong to that ancient range worn down through the eons from summits taller than the Hindu Kush. They can join their brethren from the Smokies and lay claim to a heritage as old as any mountains on Earth. I...

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