On the deepest of days, a snorkel becomes less of a pond-skimming joke and an actual, reasonable accessory. Light, dry powder pushes up against your chest, buffets against your face, and hangs in the air behind you. It forces you to time your breaths, inhaling deeply in the entrance before the turn. The apex sends you under a deep white wave, submerging, starving for air and glimpses of the slope ahead. You exhale deeply on the way out, like a swimmer spit out by the river’s tongue of white water and foam.

At the bottom, you pull up to a stop, somehow giggling, coughing, and choking all at once. Clear your goggles and shake off the hood, but there’s no shaking off that smile.