And again I say this is not a hiking log, but I will mention a couple observations:
- We had been having a dry summer - record-setting dry, in fact. This past week was a return to the norm, though. So I was unsure whether I'd be able to go hiking today. Rain makes a pleasant day outdoors miserable. Rain when you're 3 miles from your car... a thought not to be entertained.
- I set up my tent in the dark. I noticed how many stars were out. No surprise; I was miles and miles away from the nearest town (pardon me, I need to stifle a chortle. Packwood's just a wide spot in the road, hardly a town).
- Lots of stars mean no clouds. Clouds are good at keeping radiation like visible light from going through.
- Around 3:30 AM, it occurs to me that clouds are good at keeping radiation like heat near the ground from going through. No clouds means no insulating layer keeping things warm. It really didn't occur to me how cold it would get.
- After striking camp, I peeked at my car's thermometer. 36 degrees Fahrenheit at 7:30 AM. I'll bet it was colder during the night.
- blah, blah, this is really not a hiking log.
- On the trail around noon, it occurs to me that there still were no clouds. Clouds are good at keeping radiation like the sun's warming rays out. I proceeded to strip off about 3 layers (don't worry, I was still decent and then some).
I think that I've learned my lesson. (Nuts, been listening to That Madonna CD, it's all I can do not to quote "Live to Tell". I'm currently winning that particular battle of will. You're welcome.) Clouds are a fickle mistress.
Ok, show of hands, who expected me to tie in a Niel Diamond "Clouds" reference? Ha, I showed you, didn't I?
Or did I?
Now, if you'll pardon me, I'll proceed to soak most of the trail grime off this body while listening to CDs that I'd be ashamed to admit that I bought. Oh, wait: traypup will be happy to know that I bought a Monkees CD. Even chatted with a cute woman behind the counter about The Monkees.
Oh, one last thing. This is something that came up in conversation at lunch on Friday:
A "perfect" number is one that mathematicians (number theorists) define as one whos positive proper divisors add up to the number. For example:
6 = 1 + 2 + 3
Because 2 and 3 are divisors of 6, and I guess 1 is, too. But 6 isn't (which seems odd, if you count 1, but I'm no Mersenne...). So the factors of six add up to six, so six is "perfect".
I claimed that the second perfect number was 34. Which was clearly wrong:
1 + 2 + 17 # 34
(forgive me for using that symbol for not equal, everything else seemed weird. Er.)
So I looked it up. The second perfect number is 28:
1 + 2 + 4 + 7 + 14 = 28
Ok, now I can sleep easier at night, knowing the perfect numbers are in their places.