by Donna Hruska
There are places in the great northern forests and mountains of the United States that are rarely glimpsed by the human eye. Remote, inaccessible by car, they are seldom visited by even the hardiest hiker in summer and until the advent of the snowmobile, never in winter. It is here that the snowmobilers come to bind up wounds earned in the turmoil of the marketplace, to clean their lungs of the city’s grime and to arm their childrens’ souls against the temptations of freedom run-riot. More and more each year, these forests are laced with snowmobile trails, many maintained by state and local authorities, many more kept in condition by country resort and tavern owners who have found a whole new winter business life by remaining open to serve snowmobilers on their woodland safaris.
Like many other novices, when we first tried the sport, we raced around on the frozen lake in front of our week-end retreat, learning how to handle the machine, thrilling to the sensation of slipping over the ice at alarming speeds. But that soon paled. Few could sustain a lifetime interest in a sport that promised only racing in endless circles on frozen water.
It was then that we discovered that a snowmobile can be a time machine, whisking its riders back to glimpse the perfection of nature in forests almost untouched by man, yet allowing them to return to the comforts of/20th century with a flick of the wrist. Led by other families who live in the area year around, we began to explore remote regions of the forest. The trails sometimes followed logging roads or fire lanes. At other times they narrowed to mere paths, obviously cut just wide enough for our machines to get through. On occasion, when far back in the wilderness, our machines cut paths of their own.
We found the forest a fantasy of tall pines burdened with heavy clumps of snow and birch trees whose snow-covered branches appeared cut from sheerest lace. The snow under the trees was criss-crossed with fresh animal tracks. We saw deer, alone and in herds, marveled at an old buck who watched us curiously from a rise in a clearing, before turning his back and disappearing to the other side. Once a fox scampered across our trail and off between the trees. Another time we flushed a grouse almost at our feet.
Often, exhilerated by the exercise, faces ruddy from the biting wind, we turned into country taverns where children are always as welcome as adults. The parking lots, empty of cars, were always filled with a rainbow of snow machines.
“What’ll it be, folks?” the tavern keeper would welcome us. He served hot chocolate for the children, coffee and drinks of all kinds for the adults. We would order hamburgers and pizzas to ease appetites built by cold and exercise.
While the men discussed the relative merits of different machines, the women exchanged news with other snowmobiling families.
“Play you a game of pool, Dad,” my oldest son would challenge, and soon the click of billiard balls added to the warmth of the tavern.
“Suit up, everybody!” Jim, driver of the lead machine would call finally. Renewed and refreshed, we zippered our suits and slipped back into the timeless forest.
Now our family waits eagerly for the first flash of snow past our window. No longer is winter a time of waiting for life to begin again. We spend fall weekends sniffing the crispness in the air, drinking in the colors of the falling leaves, roaming the countryside, always with an eye to the sky. We salve our eagerness by pulling out the heavy boots with their felt liners, by checking to see who has outgrown his thick quilted suit, by rearranging for the fourteenth time all the supplies in our emergency kit. Finally, a week-end comes, when our car speeds north, all eyes turned to the windows, probing the roadways, watching for signs that the snow has penetrated deep enough under the trees to go forest trailing.
What are we looking for on those weekends, those vacations stolen from the routines of work and school? Love, first. A love of the joy of life for our children, so that they will have no hesitation in rejecting the temptations of modern society that threaten to rob them of that joy.
Simplicity, that is hard to grasp in the dollar and cents realities of suburban living. Excitement. Health. And magic, too—the kind of magic we found that first season when we were discovering the winter forest for the first time.
Our friends had invited us along on a night-time safari. We started out about eight o’clock. Because we were so well bundled, no one in the group noticed how the temperature had dropped. Later, we learned that it was eight degrees above zero.
It was a clear night, with no moon. The stars were tiny pinpricks in a black sky. Our nine machines roared off along the ditches of the roadway and thumped over the plowed mounds of snow into a woodland path. Headlights pierced the blackness, making a tunnel of the trail.
Suddenly, we were in another world—a world that had been touched by a frosted wand—for every tree and bush, every weed thrust up through the snow glistened and sparkled, as if jewels hung from every branch. We slowed to a stop and marveled, then proceeded slowly, as if to go too fast might break the spell, aware that nature can, with little fanfare, create incredible beauty—knowing, too, that this was one of those rare moments that can distill the essence of an entire new way of life where time has no meaning and yesterday’s America is at your fingertips.
Winter Jewels