The second glove fell a split second after the first and I saw both of them drift downward through the wind to rest in brown, brushy grass that poked up out of the snow. There should have been no grass visible in that spot, but for the saddest Cascades snowfall in years.

All four little girls on the chairlift ahead of me squirmed and swiveled their heads side to side trying to see where the gloves had gone.

Far away.

To the ends of the Earth as far as any of them were concerned. None of these young ladies would be shinnying down the rocky cliff terrain along the front side face to retrieve this pair of gloves.

“Bummer,” I said.

I was riding with three people I didn’t know because my cousin and I had started taking the Singles line on busy chairlifts. Apparently, the guy next to me saw the gloves fall, too. He cocked his head and said, “Huh.”

“That’s a trip to the Pro Shop,” I said.

“At least she has pockets.”

(Okay, I said the pockets thing, too. I was a bloody comedian this afternoon.)

This little girl’s misfortune speaks to just what worries me any time I take my gloves off on the chair lift.

So I stick close to routine when bare hands are indicated.

Both gloves remain clamped firm in my left armpit. I’ve perfected this hold by carrying water bottles and clipboards around the pool deck in just this way for years. I hardly ever drop either—only a couple times per season. My big, orange water bottle is nearly devoid of paint and looks mostly like a big, silver water bottle now. The missing paint and dented exterior are what prompt people to say, “Looks like it’s about time for a new bottle!”

People have heaped this advice on me for years so it is certainly not time for a new bottle yet.

If I take my gloves off on a chairlift, it’s because a task requires my more dexterous ungloved fingers. I employ a heightened level of caution when I slip my phone from a jacket pocket and a lower alert level for Chapstick or Kleenex.

So far I bat a thousand for not losing gear off the chairlift. With the exception of skis, of which I’ve dropped just one. And there were extenuating circumstances involving a lift boarding miscue at the bottom of the lift and clumsiness on my part. And embarrassment, plenty of embarrassment.

Plus, that was ages ago. A couple years at least…

That day, the lift attendant snagged my ski out of the snow a few feet away and handed it to the next guy in line to shepherd up to the top for me. The lift operator had done this before, I could tell by his deft response.

Seeing people lose a glove or ski pole from the lift always brings home the reality of our precarious station dangling high above snow and trees on a contraption such as a chairlift. Perfectly safe, except when chairs fall off in high wind.

Perfectly safe, except when they shut down the lift for the holiday weekend and you and two friends are stuck to fend off freezing temps, broken bones, and a pack of famished wolves.

Oh wait, that was the plot of one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen. (Thanks to cousin Chase for begging us to watch it with him. I can’t get that 93 minutes of my life back ever.)

In a spectacular coincidence, this movie was also called “Frozen.” From the rave reviews I’ve heard about the animated Disney musical, I may have seen the wrong movie by that name. And to the 45,877 IMDB users who have, as of today, joined together to give the 2010 “Frozen”—the one with compound leg fracturing and gory wolf predation—6.2 stars, all I can say is, “…Huh?”

While we’re on the subject of bad decisions, let’s talk lift safety. As many of you know, I’m kind of a safety guy.

That bar you can pull down over your lap on a chairlift might keep you on the chair should some strong wind jostle or tilt the chair. Plus, that footrest freakin’ rocks in place of dangling my legs the whole trip. My skis should have to carry me, but not the other way around.

Refraining from the bar seems to lay mostly with experienced skiers and most of the snowboard crowd. I’ve been up with my sister- and brother-in-law who snowboard several times, so I appreciate it’s more awkward for boarders to make use of the bar anyway.

Whatevs.

I’m not falling off the lift in a rogue wind or surprise yeti attack if I can help it.

Still, I don’t love being “that guy” who always puts the bar down when I can tell no one else is reaching for it. That’s part of why it was great skiing with my cousin Josh today. He put the bar down every time! Without fail. As soon as our feet had left the snow.

By the third or fourth ride I was remembering to duck my head away from the clunk on my helmet when it passed over. It was great! None of the awkwardness of saying, “Do you mind if we put the bar down?” Followed by the resentful sidelong glance from a stranger.

All things considered, I am a little surprised chairlifts are as safe as they are. Statistically speaking, essentially no one dies in chairlift incidents. I mean no disrespect to people who do lose their lives or loved ones in such accidents. It’s just so, so much safer than bikes, cars, buses, or just plain old walking.

Considering the low-friction environment of snow pants against vinyl, you’d think more people would just scooch off the edge while trying to get comfortable or fishing around to extract something from a pants pocket. I guess I’ve always felt the same way about driving along roads with opposing traffic blowing past just feet away across that thin, yellow line. Sure, there are head-on collisions, but just not that many for the number of times we pass someone in a day or a lifetime behind the wheel.

I have to chalk it up to innate self-preservation more than the human ability to actively focus on not killing ourselves. Wouldn’t you?

I will keep using the safety bar. I will keep a firm hold on my gloves under my armpit whenever I need to multitask while suspended dozens of feet above crippling terrain. Business as usual.