FEBRUARY 4, 2025 – This morning, I allowed a breach of discipline to get the better of me: I read/listened to more of the latest news about President Musk than was good for my blood pressure. I’d already been stewing over reports from direct witnesses—a family member and a close friend—that the all-out assault on “gov’m’nt” has halted life-critical medical research. Little did I know that by 6:00 p.m. today, the Commander of Chaos and Land Development Opportunities on the Eastern Shore of the Mediterranean would announce that the U.S. (synonymous with King Trump[1]) will take long-term control of the Gaza Strip. Oh yeah, I almost forgot about nails #453 and 454 in the Trump-Musk bed of nails: Senate committee approval of RFK, Jr. as Secretary of HHS and Gabbard as Director of National Intelligence[2].
To blow off steam, I decided to walk, not drive, to “Little Switzerland” for my daily ski outing.
For the record, my personal rule is that if the ambient temperature is below 10F, I allow myself to drive the mile between home and St. Moritz, the ski hill where I work out on groomed, artificial snow. If the temp drops below MINUS 10F, I give myself permission to skip the workout altogether. Wind chills are not to be taken into account. For years I’ve been seeking a change in this part of the rule, but so far, I’ve denied myself an amendment—even after today’s experience and special appeal to myself on the bitterly cold walk home.
At the time I exited the house (around noon), the ambient outside temp was 3F, well below the driving threshold. Moreover, a strong, steady wind blew straight out of the north, and as the reader knows, straight north of Minnesota lies Canada. These days, mightily offended by Trump’s groundless accusations and “negotiating” tactics, Canada is blowing especially strong cold winds our way. Unfortunately, I was too steamed to notice just how strong and cold those winds were. Plus, I was walking south and east, and was carrying my ski boots in a backpack, which provided some protection against the Canadian blast behind me.
When I reached St. Moritz, I experienced the full brunt of the wind. Furthermore, the snow-making machines were in full operation, blowing a veritable blizzard across the main slope. It would be more than an hour or two before the groomer would transform the dense and uneven artificial blanket of snow into a skiable “corduroy.” Already my hands were uncomfortably cold. An inner voice urged me to do the sensible thing and return home immediately—all digits intact.
A counter voice rose in opposition. “At a minimum,” it said, “you’ve got to ski the 25 feet of vertical rise to the summit [from where I change out of my running shoes and into my ski boots].” Once on top, my face freezing in the wind chill, I skied around and managed a few turns back to my starting point.
“There,” my sensible side said to the unsatisfied side.
“Look,” said the latter, “The wind is worst at the top. You can avoid the snow-making blizzard by staying way over to the right and skiing up and down the [approximately] 40-foot-high section a bunch of times.”
“But your hands,” countered the sensible half of me. “They’re already close to the frostbite stage. Another 10, 15 minutes out here and your fingers will be too numb to take your ski boots off. And don’t forget—you’ll be walking home pretty much straight into the wind. I’m telling you—you should stop now.”
This back-and-forth continued while I skied up and down a portion of the slope numerous times, racking up more vertical feet toward my daily quota. I purchased additional endurance by forming fists inside my gloves on each descent. This was just enough to keep my hands out of the frostbite zone.
After 40 minutes, however, both sides of my brain reached agreement: it was time to get myself home as soon as possible. I skied over to my backpack and shoes at the base of the lone trimmed-up fir tree. Quickly, I stepped out of my bindings and leaned skis and poles against the tree trunk. With my hands still rolled up in fists inside my gloves, I used them as pincers in a clumsy attempt to pull open the Velcro strap on the front of each boot, unzip the zippers, and loosen the lace tighteners of each inner boot. A camera in the right hands (and thumbs and fingers) could’ve shot a 15-second clip that would’ve gone viral. If I hadn’t been so freaking cold, I would’ve laughed at my own antics.
Because my predicament just then was no laughing matter, I decided to think of something more serious—such as how critical the evolution of an opposing thumb was to the rest of our development as a species. Of course, there are those people at the Courage Center who can draw and paint wonderful pictures using only their feet, but I think it would be next to impossible for humans to build frame houses, let alone a city dominated by office towers using only their feet. I must admit, however, that as I struggled to take off my ski boots using my fists inside my gloves, I didn’t think of voice-activated computers, which, in turn, could be used to build frame houses and office towers.
Eventually, I was compelled to unfold my fists and for five seconds, remove my gloves altogether, to manage the transition to my shoes. Once under way, however, the wind chill was so sharp, I was forced to roll up my hands into fists again. With my skis under one armpit and pressed by my left arm against my left side and my poles carried likewise on the right side, I trudged down the sidewalks toward home base. My forearms were pointed forward, parallel to the ground, and the fingers of my thick thermal gloves stuck out like they do on a pair of young kid’s way-oversized gloves when the poor kid is stuck out in the cold. I could feel frostnip on exposed parts of my face, and the dual stalactites growing from my nostrils were now past my mouth, giving me the appearance of an upright snaggletooth cat on the loose from the Como Zoo adjacent to “Little Switzerland.” When I stepped into the crosswalk at the intersection of Hamline and Hoyt, my appearance stopped traffic in all directions.
From there I quickened my pace—into the wind—which reminded me of the question raised yesterday evening when two friends of mine and I walked from our class at the University to the parking ramp: “Does walking faster into the wind make you colder if by your faster pace you get to your destination sooner?” The corresponding question in the rain is, “Does walking faster in the rain get you wetter if you reach shelter sooner?” The larger question I posed to myself, however, as I pressed my elbows against my sides to keep the skis and poles from slipping out, was how much greater the caloric burn rate is in cold weather.
Just then, my phone alarm went off. No, it wasn’t to notify me of another crazy EO coming down from the Oval Throne. It was the reminder for me to administer my eye drops. The phone was in the front pocket of my windbreaker. I wasn’t about to halt my progress, put down my skis and poles, bare my hands and fish around for my phone (among other small gear in the pocket). I’d just have to let it annoy me for the rest of the hike home—or rather, I corrected myself—I’d have to discipline myself NOT to be annoyed by it.
Ah, good ol‘ discipline! The lack of it is what had led me into the bitterly cold predicament where I now found myself. Or . . . was it the compulsive discipline that had caused me to ski much longer than my hands could bare . . . er, bear? This made me wonder whether exposure to the extreme cold could impair one’s cognitive function.
“Hold that thought!” I told myself, as I rounded the corner to the last long block before I reached our house. “Right now you don’t have the capacity to think about much of anything except getting yourself to the back door, fishing your house key out of your pocket . . . Except . . . Don’t tell me you might’ve forgotten it! Either way—if it’s in your zipped vest pocket or you forgot the darned key—you’re going to have to take your right glove off, either to unzip the pocket, fish out the key and insert it in the lock, or to dig the phone out of your other pocket and call Beth inside—but in either case, you’ll have to use fingers that have lost all feeling because they’re FROZEN!
FAST FORWARD . . .
After thawing out, I fixed myself a steaming lunch. While consuming the meal (loaded with calories of replenishment, I might add), I googled “effect of extreme cold on cognitive function.” The internet is still a beautiful thing, at least as long as King MidasMusk permits access to it. Soon I found the abstract of an NIS study on exactly that question. The bottom line: yes, extreme cold can definitely impair one’s thought processes, though a number of parameters have to be taken into account.
Hmm, I thought. I’ve always found the cold invigorating, but maybe—just maybe, over all these years of skiing, skating, shoveling, hiking, standing, in the extreme cold, the exposure has taken its toll on my cognitive function. At least I now have a possible—“probable”?—excuse, or minimally, a scientific explanation for my deficiencies. Now there’s a study waiting to be funded: What’s the cumulative effect of extreme cold on cognitive function?
But darn! Soon nothing will be funded, because Co-King MidasMusk and his cadre of 19- to 24-year old upstarts carrying sporty little backpacks from one federal agency to another are hellbent (ironically) on FREEZING all funding and consigning all government agencies into the DEEP FREEZE.
Tomorrow’s forecast calls for more reasonable temperatures, though there’s no hint of such in Washington. I’m eager to give the skiing another whirl—Day No. 38 of this season of snow drought. Before you know it, Canada will be warming to us again—at least toward those of us who live in the blue state of Minnesota. Then look out. As is printed on one of my ski straps: SNOW MELTS/BE READY.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[1] “L’État, c’est moi!” as King Louis XIV famously said.
[2] So much for Article I of the Constitution and the co-equal power of Congress (with the executive and judicial branches of government). The Republicans have wholly surrendered Congressional power to the Trump-Musk monarchical branch of government.
