Squinting at snowflakes through half-open lids means one of two things, and sometimes more if I fall asleep with my glacier glasses on. This morning it spelled curtains for warm days and cool nights, which is another way of saying that cool days and even cooler nights have come home to roost, followed by the inevitable cold days and colder nights that make egg-laying such an exercise in frustration.
While a heated henhouse solves the problem of unwanted traction during the production cycle, no such remedy exists for the equal but opposite reaction that occurs when the rubber no longer meets the road less travelled by sanding trucks, or similar contraptions designed to ease the horror of a 14 percent grade without the aid of sled dogs, or eggnog.
The slippery slope is rise over run, but that doesn't mean we should sprint out the door without our eggs, or our studded tires. In the mushmush world of predawn commuter traffic, only dogged determination gets better traction, but this isn't the Iditarod.
I don't think sled dogs care about tires anyway.