Epic Snowmobile Trip

 Last Sunday, a warm and blue sky winter day, Mike drug me out of the house and off to experience and epic snowmobile trip.  We arrived in the McCoy Creek parking lot just before noon, a bit concerned to be the only vehicle in the lot.  We drove the snowmachines off the trailer, turned on the SPOT, our avalanche beacons, and away we went.  And went and went!

Turns out, around here, Sundays are good days to go ride.  About a quarter of the way into the trip, we spied 10 or so sleds off trail.  And that was it.  No other snowmobiles to see the rest of the day.  We had the thousands and thousands of acres to ourselves.  

We rode along Palisades Lake to climb up to Black Mountain.  A stop for lunch of warm tomato potato soup spiced with red chili flake packed in the Thermos which kept it steamy hot.  Further on west until we came out to see the flats of Grays Lake.  As we were in Idaho which requires a $45 per sled permit, and being waaaay on the east edge of Idaho, we continued on the trails alone.  As we turned north, I began to notice outbuildings worthy of an overnight stay if we got ourselves in a bind.  At these lonely spots on the landscape, one remembers it is a machine that is transporting you across the white, loney, open, desolate, deserted landscape.  

The image below is what we call a snow donut.  When the sun hits south facing hillsides on these warm afternoons, snow will break and roll down the side of a hill making lovely donut shapes.  This is a very large snow donut.  Worthy of a photograph. 

At the end of the day, Mike and I got a solid 70 plus miles on the sleds and saw a LOT of beautiful, high country.  The machines worked perfectly and combined, only needed 7 gallons of fuel to top them off.  I wish you could have ridden along with us on this epic trip! 

Our neighbor lost her husband while I was off in Tennessee.  We met at the local amazing restaurant called Graze and enjoyed a wonderful meal and very good conversation.  She is anxious to help me with the garden this summer and I would be greatful for the help!  My breakfast - avacado toast.  Eric, the chef, inspires me with his beautiful, creative food.  On this dish are two perfectly poached eggs atop arugula, pickled red onions, thinly slice radishes, a sliced avacado atop a crispy piece of sourdough bread.  Finished with a slash of pickled mustard seeds.  I came home and promptly figured out how to make pickled mustard seeds!  It was divine!  I am hoping we meet there again soon! 

Lately, I have been following Substack describing themselves as "a new economic engine for culture."  I'm not sure I understand any of it, however, I have discovered some great writing.  I even subscribed to The Department of Salad whose author, Emily Nunn will laugh you right into making beautiful, delicious salads and new tasty dressings.  Just the recipe for the perfect vinegarette was worth the $50 fee for a year!  This lovely piece "On Not Loving a Wall" made me think of all these kinds of people I have in my life (and am oh so thankful for - you know who you are!!).  There may be a day when I move this blog to Substack, but for now, I'll just keep paging through the articles, wondering how it all works......Let me know if you are a Substack-er.  We need to talk! 

Ice Fishing Musings

Why would anyone want to leave their warm Saturday morning bed at 4:15am on a dark frigid morning - outside temperature -3F - and go ice fishing? 

The most difficult part is sepearating one's self from the warm bed.  The house was chilly as I pre heated thermoses, made some breakfast burritos, warmed soup to take along, and brewed coffee.  Once awakened, things improved.  

Mike had taken care of the logistics the day prior.  The red dually diesel sat outside the door, plugged in, with snowmobile trailer hitched on and snowmachines loaded.  The pull along sled was loaded with tackle box, fishing poles, and ice auger.  Helmets, coats, insulated bibs, gloves, and other warm wear was laid out and ready.  

The drive to New Fork Lake is about two hours.  We left the house about 5:30am to find black ice and snow packed roads, slowing down the drive and keeping me a bit stressed out the entire way.  At the parking lot, dusk was revealing the outlines of mountain tops behind a fog bank of cyrstalized floating ice crystals.  Hanging like a low cloud, the ice crystals fluttered down to the ground forming a thin layer of sparking diamonds.  The parking lot was 9F by then. 

We were meeting Benni and Don, two seasoned ice fishermen, ahead of us about a half hour.  Their tracks traversed the forest service trail.  At dawn, the light was flat, glasses were fogging up, and the wind blown drifts were hard to see.  Mike led on and we found the lake and our two fisher friends.  

Upon our arrival, augers drilled through the 8 inches of ice, water erupting upon the drills penetration.  A large spoon with holes is employed to remove the ice chunks and one then drops a lure, baited with stinky smelly sucker meat, down the hole to the bottom.  We were fishing about 20 feet down.  Then one jigs and waits.  And waits.  And waits.  Mike waited all day. 

The buzz of a fish hitting bait is an unmistakable feeling.  Sometimes the fish hits again.  Sometimes not.  

The morning stayed cold until, at last, the ice crystal fog blew off to a bluebird sky day, the sun warming our black gear.  The day turned glorious.  Benni caught a nice big fat lake trout (I canned this trout the next day).  Don kept getting hits.  I caught a pretty rainbow trout and turned it back to the black cold water through the hole.  Later, a lake trout would find my lure and be returned to the lake, none the worse for the event.  Mike kept waiting. 

Benni cooked up a hot burger for lunch.  That burger, slapped between a bun with ketchup and mustard was one of the finest lunches ever!  What a treat to be in the middle of nowhere on a cold February afternoon eating a hot burger.  

We rode around the lake, drilling holes here and there.  I learned that riding on slush isn't as frightening as it seems and none of us got stuck in the wet slopping watery snow.  The weight of the prior night's snowfall cracks the ice which causes the flood on top of the iced lake.  

We quit and packed up around 3:30pm and arrived home just at dusk after a long and full day. 

So why go ice fishing? 

To remember that you are still tough enough.  To ride a snowmachine in the early dawn light onto a lake covered in ice and be a bit terrified.  To look down into a black hole drilled in the ice and imagine fish biting your lure.  To feel the hit of a fish on your bait and then to feel the wiggle to get free.  To see the fish come out of the hole and onto the snow.  To release the fish back to her home. To eat the most delicious and memorable lunch.  To hang with friends.  To squint into the brilliant light bouncing off the dazzling snow.  To ride atop a lake covered in ice, cracked with the weight of snow, and flooded with water and not die.  

What happened to January??

The gravel road, Tin Cup Junction Road, runs straight north from directly across our driveway.  The straight road is just short of a mile distance when it abruptly bends to the east and carries on to State Line Road; total length just shy of two miles.  

The road is quiet with nary a vehicle to get in the way of a dog walk.  Rooster and Ruby charge ahead, smelling smells, digging for mice, and depositing smelly piles of dog pooh along the way.  "Good dogs, good dogs - leave your poopers here," I praise them.  It's a country road.  Picking up dog poop is not required out here (thank goodness!  I'd need a shopping bag to contain Rooster's piles). 

We walk to Robinson Lane, just after the bend, which is the one mile mark.  There we turn around to gather in the view now looking south and notice the other smells the south wind carries to our noses.  There are three farms we walk by, one old garage near the road smells of wet wood and musty dark places.  The dogs always chace each other and play hard when we turn around and head back south. 

I walk in my tall leather topped Schnee boots.  The soles are "air bobs" and create punctuated patterns in the snow.  On ice, these boots are a death wish, but with snow, they grab and go.  Every now and then, a patterned piece lifts to the sky.  Hence this picture.  You can see Ruby standing in the distance in a hole, fuzzy, but that is her! 

I just finished a remarkable book.  Not usually drawn to history accounts, I was attracted to the review of this book, the review written by Ryan Holiday, an enthusiastic reader who shares his reviews on the plethora of books he is reading.  Usually on a montly basis.  I strongly recommend adding your email to his email list.  Click on his name above to find him.  

Anyway, his review of "Dead Wake:  The Last Crossing of the Lusitania" by Erik Larson piqued my curiosity.  He finished his review saying, "I won't spoil this book, but I will say the more I read about Woodrow Wilson, the more I hate him."  Now this guy is kind of a Chill Guy so when he said "hate" it got my attention and I figured I better read the book.  

(The link above is for an audible book.  I checked this book out of our local library.)

I did not grow to hate Woodrow, but I did greatly enjoy the book.  Larson builds characters so well.  I felt like I knew them all as they sailed in their ginormous ship.  The same company that built the Lusitania built the Titanic - which incidentally sunk two years prior.  It was not, however, a torpedo that sunk the Titanic.  

There is a problem with books of war, however.  As a child, we were put to bed at news time, 10pm.  Off to our rooms, lights shut off, but ears wide open.  When the news was over, Dad would watch the black and white war movies and the sounds of whistling bombs dropping from noisy fighter planes carried into my restless brain as I listened to the roar of planes, the explosions of bombs, the sounds of war.  Dreams of war have plagued my sleeping hours all of my life.  Rarely do I recall those dreams, but this book stirred those memories. 

As I paged through this accounting of the Lusitania, one night I awoke at 2am from a dream of being wrapped in a blanket hiding under something so the overhead planes searching for me would not find me.  War, talks of war, and more war.   Five stars for this book, a very good read. 

His wife weighs in on his January 21 missive with some of her favorite reads for 2023.  Once again, my curiosity is interested in the title "Raw Dog: The Naked Truth About Hot Dogs," by Jamie Loftus.  This link too is for an audible book but I got our library to borrow it from another county in Wyoming (which costs $2) and picked it up last night after exhaling a big breath when I closed the book on the Lusitania.  

Okay, there is a dramatic difference in writing between these two books!  Loftus writes like she has taken some of the meth from the Haunted Meth House herself!  She is ragged and all over the place!  I like her.  The font is smaller (Mike says there is larger font in history books because old people read history books - baaaaah!), her writing is manic and impatient.  I am certain I will never eat a hot dog again (well, maybe I need to try a Costco hotdog....) and I haven't even gotten to the slaughterhouse chapter yet.  This one is going to be amusing and entertaining.  My dream cycle is certain to shift....!!

And here, a picture of my very good friend, Rooster, after our afternoon walk as he prepares for a nap. Sleepy eyes! He is such a joy!!