Imagine this: it’s a crispy 7 degrees out and crystal clear blue skies. Outside your yurt, a formidable pile of logs, and beside it, a quaint little outhouse. You peak back into the yurt and feel the draft of warmth from the crackling wood stove brush across your frozen eyelashes—the ladder everyone hangs their socks and clothes on reminds you of a Christmas tree. Memories of last night’s aching knees have dissipated like the moisture on your balaclava—thanks to two small pills of ibuprofen. This is good, really good.