This is just a short part of one story.
SNOWMOBILES FLOAT, DON'T THEY?
On this particular weekend, in the dead of January, my brother-in-law, John, and I went up to our cottage at Eagle River to enjoy a winter weekend in the luxuries of an uninsulated cottage with just a small wood stove for any pretend heat. The wives rapidly declined our invitation to come along as they decided that taking care of six little kids was far more fun. Go figure.
We arrived under a fresh blanket of snow, like 4 feet, which hid the real road down to our cottage.
John: "Where's the mailbox? The roads right at it."
Bob: "I believe it may be under the snow, Einstein. This road we're on has been plowed so the berms probably buried it."
After much discussion, about 30 seconds, we left the car and packed our gear down to the cottage. A roaring fire soon warmed the place nicely. That is if you stood 1.5 inches from the stove.
We went out to the community junk yard and found the snowmobile......under 4 feet of snow. By community junk yard, I mean that there are several cottages here, all private now, and over the years we've just piled old stuff in a big heap, and every so often someone will rummage through it and take the real junk to the town dump. Which means the pile grows considerably in a short time.
We got the beast of a machine started, and took off out across Pickerel Lake.
"Better turn the lights on," I said to John.
"There isn't one. It's busted off. Besides, I don't see anyone else out here."
"That's because it's snowing so hard. You can't see a darn thing. We better head back and try to fix it."
"Which ways the cottage, Bob?"
"I don't know! Your driving. I'm holding the seat on the sled so it doesn't fall off."
"I think it's over this way. I'll head toward that shoreline."
"Wrong guess, Einstein. This is Taylors cottage. Pretty good aim though John. We're on the right shore, just north by a half mile.
We're up in Taylor's yard now and we have to get back on the lake to get to our place.
Bob: " Hey John, let's get a good running start down the yard here and fly off that drop off out onto the lake. I'll bet we can get some good air."
"Hey, great idea. I bet we can clear at least 25 feet."
We hit the edge of the drop-off at full throttle and sail out over the vast frozen wasteland known as Pickerel Lake. Had we paid more attention in Science and Physics classes in high school and college we'd know that even in the coldest days, the ice near the shoreline is thinner and can literally sink under heavy weight.
We hit with a resounding thud and go nowhere. The machine slowly starts to settle down and then I feel water coming up my leg.
John: " We broke through the ice. How the hell did that happen? How deeps the water here?"
Bob: " I'm not sure, but if it's like our shoreline I'd say, oh, let's see, 25 feet out, yep! About six feet deep here."
The machine didn't sink and we managed to pull, push, and swear the thing out onto solid ice/snow. Somehow, it started right up and we made it back to our place in fine shape. Except for the big dent we put in the side of the canoe coming up onto shore at our place.
"What's the damn canoe doing there?" John yelled.
"I don't know. What a stupid place to leave the canoe, right on the bank of the shoreline. Don't people know someone might run in to it with a snowmobile?"
Anyone for a Weenie Roast?