It appears I had the second smallest bladder of the crew, since I was the second one up Saturday morning. But whereas my neighbor took his hike to the latrine and then returned to his sleeping bag, I stayed up.

After starting the gas burner under the coffee pot (with water and grounds already measured and prepared by our chef the night before), I was outside to watch the sun rise.

Actually a little disappointing. Hard to enjoy the full effect of the terminator passing over with all those trees in the way. Would be hard to get used to.

A quick scout of the neighborhood for likely snowdrifts, then it was back to the lodge for breakfast.

The entire morning, and most of the afternoon, was spent digging snowcaves. We had five leaders for seven youth, so there was enough supervision around for me to try digging my own cave.

First, you start with a likely snowdrift, and dig.

This is actually fairly easy. The hard part comes when you have gone deep enough into the drift to start digging up. There is no place for the snow to fall except on your face (and down your neck), and it has to be hauled out in the sleds, one load at a time.

Even with a small, short-handled shovel, each spadeful of snow takes planning and effort.

In my case, it doesn't help to find a huge log in your cave, forcing you to tunnel up and over it. This is also when the task is most claustrophobic, laying in a narrow, cold tunnel as you intentionally cave the ceiling in around yourself, burying your head and shoulders in clumps of hard, cold white.

But once you have dug high enough to kneel, the work speeds. The snow is easy to scrape out now that you have some elbow room, and the hard part is to not dig so fast as to fill in your tunnel. The air is cool but comfortable, with no wind, and it is easy to work up a sweat. Sounds from outside are muffled, and it is quiet, peaceful labor.

You want to build your sleeping berths higher than the top of the doorway, so that you spend the night in a warm air bubble. An hour or so after lunch, I had my sleeping berth about 75 percent complete when part of my ceiling, saturated with water from the snowdrift melting in our 50+ degrees temperature, came plopping in.

You want a few ventilation holes in your cave, but not a skylight. Whatever warm air you generate in the cave would slip out the ceiling, and cold air would rush in.

I think you'd be better off sleeping in the open under the night sky.

Well, maybe not, but this cave was certainly not habitable. And the remaining roof too saturated with water to support any patching job.

So, what to do?

Begin again, of course. Only in a bigger drift.

But by this time, I was saturated myself. Snowmelt was dripping down in my first snowcave, and the second site, while sturdier, was pure slush for the first six to eight inches.

When the call came out around two-thirty for the avalanche rescue training and demonstration (using modern radio locator beacons), I looked out towards the mouth of my cave and noticed my right leg was trembling.

And I couldn't stop it.

And my jaw was stiff, slurring my speech.

Well, hello hypothermia.

I had made a point of mentioning to the lads that warm, spring days are a greater risk for hypothermia than bitter cold, mid-winter blasts. Because you get wet easier in warm snow. And here I am, soaked through the carharts, jeans and thermals, clear to the skin.

Time for a break by the fireplace.

I missed the avalanche field exercise.

Around four o'clock, when I and my clothes were all dry, I went back to the cave. The slush was frozen solid now, with the sun low in the sky and trees shading the drift. Could easily resume digging. Would probably have to finish by flashlight, but it could be done.

Or....

I could go back to the warm lodge, enjoy a hot dinner of beef stew, and play a few games of cribbage.

And sleep on a bunk in front of a fire.

You know what I did.

But not all of us were wimps. Of the other four snowcaves dug, one was incomplete, another suffered a cave-in from the melt, and a third was too small and too low to be of any use to anybody, except maybe a badger.

The fourth cave, a team project, was huge. Not high, since their drift was also too low for a proper ceiling, but it was a major excavation. They did not, however, elevate the sleeping berths above the doorway, so it would not insulate as a good snowcave should.

Just the same, three hardy members convinced themselves they would sleep overnight in the cave (mind you, the ones who dug the cave were unwilling to do that).

By camera flash, the room looked cozy and bright.

But when illuminated by a flashlight, the cavern was not so warm and inviting.

After dinner, a small caravan escorted the three brave souls to their sleeping quarters. The entry of their cave glowed from the bright torch of one father.

Then the caravan walked away, to electric lights, bunk beds and a warm fire.

Back at the lodge, one leader asked if we wanted to make bets on who would stay out the night, and who would come shivering back into the lodge.

He mentioned expecting one new member to fail. A large kid, newly arrived from tropical Texas.

I just stared. The main point of our youth program is to build confidence in these young men. To let them see themselves exceeding their own expectations.

How can they do that when their own leaders are betting they'll fail?

But I said nothing. Something in my face must have gotten the point across, because the leader recovered by stating the Texan kid "might surprise me after all."

"That's what he's here for," I muttered under my breath as I headed to my bunk.

He made it.

The man with the smallest bladder was getting the fire started Sunday morning when the Texan came into the lodge, dragging his gear. In the quiet lodge, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation by the fire.

His own Dad had told him he wouldn't be able to do it. That he would chicken out and not sleep in a snowcave.

But he did. Proudly.

Never underestimate the power of motivation.