As the sunlight peeked its closing eye through the windows of the old fort nestled on the hillside overlooking the bridge, it touched the lush wild grasses where tomorrow morning would be frost.
Feeling the bite of pins on our noses, we wondered how one could have spent months camped out here in its day of fully operational.
The chill here is a constant during the winter, since the fort sits near the peak of the cliffs standing stolid above the sea... the ocean pours its cold across the span of the bridge and then pushes the chill upwards from the rocky beach, blanketing the entire area in salty winds.
The drafts go through you to touch your bones, and your hands become skeletal, like fleshless contraptions made of ice.
This would explain the high ratio of fireplaces to tiny spaces here, I would imagine that even the smallest room when lit with fire still would be encapsulated in cold.
Still, it would have been a sight to see the orphaned fort when it was in function. All of San Francisco would have been a bustling thing to witness; romantic, mysterious and eerie alike.