“November, you old vagabond, with your tattered coat of grey, you stumble into every town, with a chill that steals the day.” —Kevin McManus

The digital thermometer on my truck dash is bouncing between 27 and 30 degrees below zero at 6 AM. My Gordon Setter “Maggie” is curled up in the front seat, nose to tail, probably wondering why I rousted her out of a warm bed to ride with me. Hunting season is over and she knows it. I took her with me because, quite frankly, it gets lonely out here some days. But the biggest reason is I can’t stand to be away from her very long, and my career allows me to keep her with me the majority of the time.

The snow blowing across the road looks more like swirling smoke — the air is dry at these temps, and “finger drifts” of spindrift snow are created on the road, blown about and shaped by the relentless wind in open country.

We wheel into a small town for coffee on the way to visit one of my sales accounts. By small, I mean that in the truest sense. The sign at the edge of town announces “Population 47.” I know by reading local obituaries in the morning paper that it’s closer to 43 these days. The city fathers are leaving the sign alone for now. Three currently expecting local wives are likely to make the sign relatively honest again in the near future.

I stop in front of the town’s restaurant located in a brick structure that was once a bank. Its last day of operation in that capacity was in 1918. Being a brick structure, it has survived the ravages of the Northern Great Plains far better than the white clapboard structures in town, some of which have not been serviceable in decades.

I step out of the truck. I’m sheltered from the wind, but the air is cold and brittle. I imagine flicking the air with a finger and seeing spiderweb cracks appear in the atmosphere.

I tell Maggie, “I’ll be right back.” I always tell her this. It’s part of our bond of trust — as well as an apology for not taking her everywhere, as a proper sidekick should be treated. Treats and forgiveness will be offered.

I walk into the restaurant and greet the owner, a local now well into her 80s. I say, “Cold out there today.” She says, “You can say that again… Cold out there.”

She asks, “Where’s Maggie?” I reply, “Out in the truck, but it’s still running with the heat on.” She says, “Well, go get her and bring her in and I’ll fix breakfast for you. Too cold to leave her out there.”

When Maggie and I return to the warmth of the building, it’s like Act Three of a play we both know by heart. She will lay by my chair on the oiled hardwood floors while I drink hot black coffee, and soon she will roll her eyes in delight with bacon treats from my plate.

In this simple moment, our lives are complete and full. My sense of how rare this is in the current century is a mixture of both profound gratitude for simply being here and experiencing this as well as profound sadness for those who don’t or can’t understand the perfection of this simple vignette. This is Americana at its finest.

Three retired farmers are in the corner shaking a dice cup to see who pays for breakfast. Upon the third shake of the cup and the crisp slam on the table, one says, “Well, looks like everyone gets a free breakfast today except me. Hey, can Maggie come over here for some bacon treats?” Upon hearing her name, Maggie is already across the room — actually, wiggling across the room to her friends.

Back in the truck, well fed and caffeinated, we turn north into the wind. The Pheasant, Sharptail Grouse, and Hungarian Partridge we hunted in the mild days of fall are now congregated on the road edges, graveling and scratching for grain remnants from harvest. It’s pure survival now, and the once hunted we simply wish well and Godspeed.

Thirty below zero is a “leveler,” and anything out here moving and surviving is worthy of respect.

I tap Maggie and say, “Look at all those birds!” She uncoils from the passenger seat and presses her nose on the truck window and begins to whine. Not today, Old Girl — we are all just surviving out here now.

There appears toward the sunrise in the east the cold weather phenomenon known as a sun dog — or parhelion, if you are a meteorologist. It is created when wind-driven ice crystals in the atmosphere create a 22-degree halo on either side of a rising or setting sun. It is both rare and beautiful, as well as a reminder that we are seriously north.

The truck creaks and groans with each bump in the road. Machinery in general tends to divorce the notion of movement when it’s this cold. To that point, there is a backpack of winter survival gear in the rear seat should weather or mechanical failure strand us in open country. We have sleeping bags as well as water and food for two days. A warm 60-pound dog in the sleeping bag with you certainly can’t hurt either.

Arriving in the next town, we stop at the county shop that houses the snow removal and road maintenance equipment. The county road superintendent is a friend. Walking through the door with spindrift snow blowing in with me, he asks, “You got Maggie with you?” I respond, “Yeah, she’s in the truck, but it’s still running with the heat on.” He says, “Well bring her in — it’s cold out there.” I reply, “You can say that again…”

From the back of the shop near the coffee pot a chorus of machine operators waiting for the weather to moderate yells back, “Cold out there!”

Maggie and I settle in with them on the well-worn couch in the back of the shop, I with a cup of steaming black coffee and Maggie — well, she’s working the room. Thankfully, we have had a busy hunting season and she’s down a few pounds, as each of the county employees has squirreled away some small treat for her. They are aware of her reputation as a stupendously talented hunting dog and all are vying for her attention.

Life is simple here, and at 30 below zero, there is a commonality of survival regardless of position or background.

As weather conditions moderate, we say our goodbyes and head to our next stop.

Walking out the shop door, the county road superintendent says, “Be careful out there today — it’s cold.”

“You can say that again…”

Sometimes the things that are viewed as mundane create some of the most lasting memories.

As Thanksgiving approaches, let us all be thankful for what we have and look for joy and satisfaction in the simplest of all things.