The white board at the base said the summit was -10 degrees, and word near the cafeteria was that the wind chill was -20. Still, with fresh corduroy calling, we bundled up and sat tight as the chair lift whisked us to the top. We quickly discovered that speedy runs would keep us warm and fell into a routine during which I paused very briefly to contemplate the port-a-potty just to the right of the safety station at the summit. A man had just disappeared behind its thin plastic door. The thought of removing any article of clothing in those temperatures was absurd; I shuddered to think at how nature’s call would be altered in such conditions. Why on Earth couldn’t someone wait until reaching the much more pleasant accommodations at the bottom, from which we were separated by a mere seven minutes of blissful packed powder?