I'm hiking with friends high in the Sierra Nevada, above the west shore of Lake Tahoe. A heavy gray lid of cloud clamps down on the Tahoe Basin, muting that famous blue. Down by the shore it's early spring--muddy, the grass just starting to sprout; a few snow patches still, in deep shade. But as we climb the ridge above Emerald Bay, topping two km, it gets snowier. Rugged, steep woods open along ridgetops. Views for miles, but the foreground's dead: snow, mud, dead grass and stone. We've climbed back into late winter.

Brr. We're furry--wolf people--but down in the lowlands we came from, it's mild, well into spring, so we shed our winter coats weeks ago. Way too short-pelted for this subalpine chill, and no one thought to bring clothes. In a California spring?

We're not only on foot, but our feet (or rather, paws) are bare. Snow stings. Tough soles, I won't frostburn on contact, but it does hurt.

Fortunately, we can adjust our forms a bit, so I will myself to toughen my soles against frostbite, and start regrowing my winter coat. Feel that odd push as follicles and footpads go into overdrive and the first millimeter of calluses and new fur extrude. But even at my fastest growth, I'll feel hours of chill.

Pick my way around worst of the snow patches, shiver, climb... and toughen up.

• Lake Tahoe's Emerald Bay: in the documentary Under Our Skin, on health insurers' denial of coverage for longterm Lyme infection, an ex-ranger (who lost his job to Lyme) climbs rocks with kids. Boulders, pines. I thought "that's Emerald Bay!" then scoffed "Could be anywhere". Then the camera pans: it's Emerald Bay. So...
• Emerald Bay = trust my own knowledge! Oh, and institutions lie.
• Dreary season: the time is out of joint, not me. In the long dreary winter of Trump, the sun's hidden, all is mud, and seeds won't sprout. Yet.
• Wolf people: just read The Grimoire Grammar School PTA by Caitlyn Rozakis. Harried human parents of a werewolf want the best for their girl, so they find a school for cryptids. Endless putdowns for being mere humans before Mom says "Enough!"
• Snow and ice patches sting our soles: our souls. That pun's chronic in my dreams. Ice may be a pun on ICE, too--Trump's masked gunmen.
• Alter myself, not the dream: urged in Exploring the World of Lucid Dreaming by Stephen LaBerge and Howard Rheingold. But they write as if all nightmares are psychological--inner fears or guilts. Absurd. Dreams often warn of external danger; they evolved to. But the writers were white Stanford guys in the 1980s--a rich, safe, stable world, for them at least. Not my world! You?
• ACTION: Don't try to climb to spiritual heights--not in this climate! Insulate, toughen up your soul, and wait for spring thaw.

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