Learning to Chill

Cold water is everywhere that I live. In Missoula, Montana, you can kayak or surf or swim most days of the year. I have a house near the confluence of two big rivers, and there’s no shortage of access to water. But sometime in my thirties my blood grew reluctant to finish its circulation through my extremities, and my hands now turn into floppy, useless clubs every time it rains. My asthmatic lungs wheeze at the very thought of exercising in winter, making cold-weather and cold-water sports increasingly difficult. I started having asthma attacks while kayaking, and after ten seasons up north I stopped guiding whitewater trips in Alaska. I begin every ski tour with a dozen disposable hand warmers stuffed in my mittens and pockets. Cold water, in all its delightful forms, has turned me into something of a liability.

Then I hit forty. Forty sucked: nothing unique, just the standard challenges of being an aging human. Last year, as an attempt to