It is currently fifty-two degrees in November, and frankly, I do not trust it. I own fourteen fleece jackets for a reason, and not one of them is being utilized because the atmosphere refuses to commit to a proper freeze.

Last week, we were promised the harsh, honest bite of a true Montana winter. Instead, I am walking down Main Street in a light base layer, feeling completely unprotected from the inevitable betrayal of the clouds. It is deceptive. It is insulting.

When the snow eventually arrives, it will likely be in an aggressive, unannounced wallop that shuts down 19th Avenue for three days. I would much prefer a predictable, steady misery to this fake spring. If the sky cannot provide a consistent sub-zero temperature, it should at least have the decency to rain. I am tired of being prepared for nothing.