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My co-workers think I'm insane.

In the past month, the Northeast has been assaulted by snow, ice, and bitter cold. Doesn't matter-I am compelled to hike. A nearby wildlife refuge, with its forest, hills, and river, feeds my compulsion.

While everyone else heads to the cafeteria for lunch, I pull on snow pants, heavy socks, thermal mittens, and hiking boots. I zip my ski shell and smear Vaseline on my nose and cheeks so I won't get frost bite.

I trudge into the woods, endure fifteen minutes of biting wind and wonder if maybe I am insane. The endorphins suddenly kick in, with an avalance of body heat. I rip off as many layers as I can without getting arrested. Skin stinging, heart pounding, I breathe freedom.

Afterwards, I come back to my desk, wipe the Vaseline off my face, the sweat off my neck, and feel the burn wither. I power up the computer and think that, for a few minutes, I have truly lived.

Though most of my co-workers have been at this company for-not years-decades, very few have actually crossed the street to the conservation land. They don't understand that I am compelled to get outside, even for a few minutes. Even in ugly weather.

I want writing to be the same type of compulsion. I want to travel to that secret place, trudge until the burn kicks in, strip down.

And breathe.

Kathy Mackel, Boost, Dial, Penguin Books