The thing with standing at the top of a half pipe in the middle of a noreaster wearing tennis shoes is that your feet get so damn cold and start to sting like snake guts and then they go numb and you can’t feel them at all. And that’s when the imagination starts to set in. I’m the jackass who packed his stuff in speed and haste, leaving for the US Open in Stratton without me trusty waterproof shoes.

I get to thinking of my feet shriveling and the water freezing all up, inside and out. Then my feet going brown, corky knots of flesh with no feeling, drying cold and my toes falling off. Like out of those crazy expedition photo essays, craggled guys and gals all chapped up and going non-stop. I don’t pretend to be a big mountain man. I wear wimpy shoes. Folks can’t tell from my face but I hurt on the inside. And then they go numb. No feeling. Somewhere someone told me once that when they go numb you’ve got maybe an hour to get the circulation pumping before frostbite sets in. Then the rot. I don’t know about no rot.

So I race back to the lodge, mostly on my ass down the mountainside because my feet aren’t circulating or effective. Young children in expensive gear race by me, free and sailing. I fight the ice and the ice wins, bootfulls of victory.

Takes me like fifteen minutes to get one sock off and then the other and the gentleman at the rental counter asks why I’m renting boots without a board and that it’s probably too much to spend this close to closing and I say, brother take a look at my socks and he says say no more.

I make it back up to the top of the half pipe, little breath to spare. With these boots I could conquer anything save a snowboard. I don’t slide too well. But what a view. Heck of a view. Feeling comes back, snow starts falling, wind picks up. I’m happy for my beard.