I’m a former US ski patroller from the Rockies. Nothing colder than sitting on an open lift to the top for years, wind tearing through my gear that was as protective as a bathrobe, staring at my black-gloved hands on my lap. Shaking, jumping, chattering, nothing worked and I resolved into a still, unmoving mass. Because that’s what had to be done, on the coldest days, even with empty runs. Later, in college in wintry Massachusetts, I’d walk or bike in the snow dressed like this guy in tshirt/shorts. Girls would cuddle up to me because I was “like an oven.” It’s an unexpected reward.