When one lives in a place that embraces winter recreation as a mean of economic and metal health survival, one has to be prepared to have motorized winter sports surrounding them for roughly half the year. I live in such a place, and I am prepared for such a situation. I don't mind seeing snowmobile tracks everywhere I go, almost getting hit by the groomer, and smelling two-cycle gas everywhere I go. It comes with the territory, literally I suppose.
Inside, under, around and between the whine of the engines and the scrape of front skis on pavement lie the non-motorized recreation options that do a great job of supplementing the whir of the motors. Things like downhill and cross country skiing, snowshoeing, ice sculpture and ice fishing. They sort of fill in the empty spaces, and if you can escape the snowmobile tracks you will surely stumble upon snowshoe tracks in the snow, or the unmistakable path laid down by an ice fishing sled being pulled out to that secret place. The place where the bulk of this winter activity, be it motorized or non-motorized, are the frozen lakes where the tracks seem to start everywhere and end everywhere else.
Well, tonight I stood on the end of the municipal dock in the lightly falling light, fluffy snow as it silently covered the world around me and it was the most amazing, serene thing. My favorite part was that it had covered the ice, there was not a track to be found as far as the eye could see. As long as I didn't turn around and look at the street, that is. But out on the lake, it was silent and smooth and uninterrupted and perfect as it could ever, every be. I loved it. And, as added effect the snow was obscuring the opposite shore, save for a long light in a house somewhere that suddenly seemed to be far, far away. It was just so nice. So very, very nice.
Editor's Note: This is Big Dave and Company's 600th post. That's pretty neat too we should think.