“Yes!!! A shelter! Damn it—it’s an outhouse.”

Nose, toes, and fingers are items I hold in higher regard than overall standings. There is a certain amount of inherent discomfort I accept in these races, but I’d crossed that line. My feet needed some love.

Frostbite is a sneaky, diabolical, and—given enough procrastination as fuel—vicious predator. It stalks our little piggies all the way home. Where a match, placed under the foot, initiates an immediate response, frostbite lurks. Like the wolve...