t had been six weeks since I paid my first official visit to the Occupy Buffalo camp in Niagara Square. The day that I arrived, the sun was shining, the weather was balmy and, it wasn't a half bad day to be a protester.

When I arrived with our photographer, there were more than a dozen people holding signs, waving to cars and engaging with those who passed by. As we walked and talked, other emerged from tents and joined the protest. It was a bustling scene of democracy in action.

Today, as I headed down Court St. for a 9AM appointment at the District Attorney's office, I decided to check in on the Occupy Buffalo folks and see how they were holding up. After all, the temperature had dropped significantly since my last visit, as had public support for the movement.

Occupiers have been booted from parks across America as a movement that was full of energy and drew the curiosity of many when it began in the fall, struggled to identify what exactly the end game of the encampments is.

As I reached the corner of Court and Franklin, Occupy Buffalo more closely resembled a ghost town —if ghosts sleep in tents and scrawl witty protest signs on cardboard.

The tents were there — in fact with the naked eye it appeared there may even be more than during my first visit. The signs were there, calling on the uprising of the 99 percent to overthrow the 1 percent and "regulate greed."

But there was a distinct difference. The signs were not held high and waved at the passing motorists. They were stuck in the ground. Some were hung from tents, others, lying propped up. But not a single sign was held because there was not a single protester in sight. None. Nada. Zip.

I paused at the corner and waited. I checked my watch. It was 8:50 a.m., prime commute time. This was the chance to reach the 99 percent with your message, and not a single protester stood at the ready.

I waited a little longer. Still no one. This is crazy, I thought to myself, where are they? It occurred to me that if they are like me, maybe they were running late for their "job." Lingering too long in the shower perhaps.

Sucked into a particularly juicy segment of the Today Show. I know that charming fellow Matt Lauer has made me late for work on more than one occasion. But then it occurred to me — this is their job! There is no television, no hot showers to linger in. They are hard core, 1960s protesters. The protest doesn't sleep. This is an occupation. At least it was supposed to be. At the moment, it appeared to be a tent occupation at best, and a dead occupation at worst.

At the risk of being late, I turned and began to walk up Franklin. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one! I spun around and sure enough, there was what appeared to be an authentic, occupy Buffalo protester.

He wasn't holding a sign, passing out literature or waving to cars, but he certainly looked as though he had been sleeping in Niagara Square. Like the elusive Yeti, he stumbled through the encampment and he was gone, disappearing behind one of the large tents as quickly as he had appeared. I cursed myself for not having my camera at the ready, dropped my head to shield against the blustery wind and moved on.

On my way back to the office, I took an alternate route, so I didn't see if their were suddenly 100 protesters forming an angry mob and demanding the heads of Warren Buffet, Donald Trump and every member of the Walton Family on platters, but I suspect there wasn't.

Instead, I took time to stop by the new encampment forming in Lafayette Square. My first reaction to the handful of tents hastily assembled on the grass with a folding table in front: It looked more impressive on last night's news. My second impression: At least they have some actual live protesters!

A man and woman paced back and forth on the sidewalk carrying signs. Another gentleman stepped into the street to extend his sign to those walking up Main St. A few more folks sat at the table, ready to share the proverbial Kool-Aid with anyone who might be thirsty. Though they didn't have any takers, at least while I was watching, I give them credit— at least they were trying. Down the street, the original encampment was a shell of its fall-self.

It reminded me of a comment I made upon my return to the office after my initial visit. A co-worker asked me what I thought of those who stood, ready to fight for ... something. "It is one thing to protest when it is 60 degrees out," I said. "Let's see how they are doing when the temperature hits freezing."

It was 32 degrees this morning. The protesters may have been huddled in sleeping bags, occupying the porta-potties or staging a sit-in on their couches at home. Two things I am certain about — It was prime time for protesting and there was no one to be found, and it was cold, really cold. Is there a connection to be made? You decide.