It' true that we are slow drivers here in the U.P. We don't hurry and there is no challenge to pass because there are few cars on our roads. We find it best to get to our destination slow but sure. Why take chances and slide into a five or six foot snowbank during the seven months of slippery roads? Summers here up north are too short to change our driving habits.
Many of us forget to remove the little orange flags that decorate the radio antennas of our vehicles when spring comes, because in wintertime these flags warn us at an intersection that a car is approaching.
I was asked in July last year by a guest from downstate, "What's the purpose of that flag?"
"It stands for snow," I told him.
"Why are you so fanatic here to have a campaign going for snow?," he asked.
I explained, "We don't wish or hope for snow. We just get it, at least two hundred inches annually, and if there's more, we begin to brag about it.
He told me he'd noticed orange flags on roadsides, near bridges and culverts, also on fire hydrants. "You sure like the color orange," he said.
Again I explained that our fire hydrants get buried by huge snowbanks and that bridge railings and barricades near ravines are blown over by drifts of snow. In spring there are larger flags warning travelers of heaving and bumpy roads, when the sixty to seventy inches of frost is thawing from the ground.
I knew I impressed the person and expected his next question, "Have you ever been snowed in?" he asked.
"Never," I bragged. "We are prepared for snow. In June there is still some snow in our ditches here and there where the sun does not reach it."
When trolls from down below hear us talk that way most of them shake their heads. That's all right. We've again averted an invasion of people who wouldn't fit anyway.
Yes, our winters are very severe. For weeks temperatures do not rise above zero. We usually do have a January thaw but this last winter we didn't. Snow piled six feet high or more along roadsides. Had it not been for the small orange flags on the antennas of our cars, there would have been many fender benders.
Several times, because of the snow, Claude and I had delayed a trip to our cabin in the Ottawa National Forest at Eel Lake. I go there to do some ice fishing and Claude takes his woodworking tools and carves.
We pulled our old snowmobile, an Arctic Cat, on a trailer, hoping the forest roads would be passable but in case the machine broke down, we also carried skis and snowshoes with our supplies on our home-made sled.
Seven foot snowbanks dwarfed our truck as we parked it on M64 at the forest road intersection. "I'll take a long run," Claude said as he unhooked the trailer. "Without the sled, I'll make it there,"
After several roaring attempts halfway to the top of the snowbank he finally dug out a slide to level the snow. As the old Arctic Cat groaned and finally teetered on top of the bank, I grunted and cheered. Then Claude got the sled and loaded our gear. Seating myself behind my husband who drives the stubborn machine, I held on tightly as we lurched forward. Once we nearly hit the Smokey the Bear sign. He seemed to be accusing us for the smelly fumes we left behind.
"I hate snowmobiles too," I said to him. "They sure pollute the environment."
We raced on down the forest road. Claude does the driving since I'm not brave enough. But I've become a good back seat snowmobile driver, yelling directions to my usually patient husband, who has bad vision in one eye and a tendency to overcompensate to the right.
My hollering scares the crows in their flight, but I want him to stay on the narrow track made by other snowmobilers. "Go left now, Claude. No! No! Straight ahead. Oh, keep going. Go! Go! More right, right I told you!" I yell. Claude pretends to be hard of hearing. He knows once we are safely at the cabin I will praise him for his guts managing that stupid machine.
This particular day he was a little nervous driving in a heavy snow squall. "Amy, I'll stop right here if you don't quit yelling," he shouted. Nervous, and worried too, it took all my willpower to be quiet. Stiff as a board I sat behind him, holding tightly to the strap of the slippery vinyl seat, not letting out a single peep.
Uphill we roared, swaying crazily from side to side. Then downhill we raced to where the road ends at the narrow trail that leads to our lake. There a huge drift blocked the entrance and for a minute we were airborne. I felt my tailbone protest as we landed. Then as we sped on, my feet slipped from the running boards so my legs dragged limply along in the snow. I wanted to scream.
Just one more hill and we'll be safe on the last mile stretched to the cabin I thought. But near the boatlanding, at the slight bend in the road, we ran off the trail and hit a snowbank. The snowmobile tipped and I was thrown headfirst into three feet of snow. It was a soft landing and very quiet. For a moment I just wanted to stay there but had to come up for air. Wiping the snow from my eyes I looked for my hat, then heard my husband say, "Amy, don't you know how to shift your weight? Snowmobiling is a little like sailing."
"Sailing? You sure sent me sailing!." I shouted angrily.
"Amy, learn to relax. Take the bumps as though you were horseback riding."
I refused his helping hand, and there was no point in arguing while lying in the snow. Finally by rolling to a firmer place, which is much easier than pushing oneself up from the soft snow, I scrambled to get on my feet. I yelled, "From now on I'm going to holler again. At least I do something that keeps you on the trail."
The snowmobile's engine had stopped and Claude couldn't get it started. "Probably flooded again. We'll let this thing sit. We're going to ski the rest of the way. We'll get it back tomorrow," he said
After we shouldered our backpacks, Claude broke trail and I followed. It seemed almost irreverent to mar the fresh fallen snow with our tracks.
In the swamp I heard the pileated woodpecker butcher a tree. A ruffed grouse sat dozing in a balsam, warming itself in the late afternoon sunshine. Another one nearby gorged itself on popular buds. When we arrived at the cabin a pair of bald eagles winged their way to roost in the white pine, near the beaver dam.
"It's worth all the trouble of getting here," I sighed.
Claude agreed and he dug a path to the door, but caught me when I tried to squeeze through the small opening. "Not so fast, I apologize for letting you fall off," he said. "Are you really going to holler again?"
"Just wait!" I threatened.
"Sure was fun to see you fighting that snowbank," he laughed. "I may do it again."
The cabin was a mess. Whoever had been there had a wild party. Cookie tins laid on the floor along with the coffee pot. Books were scattered everywhere. I found a few pages of my fishing book on top of the quilt on the bunk bed. Cully Gage's "Last Northwoods Reader" was open at a chapter titled, "Skunked" and rested in Claude's old recliner chair. Knickknacks had been thrown and a bean can that held pussywillows had fallen from the table. I found a pile of dry dog food under a pillow on the couch.
"Guess who?" I asked Claude.
"Your friends the flying squirrels. That's what you get for hand feeding them," he said.
We were too exhausted to care and so ate a quick lunch by candlelight and then retired early. I pretended not to hear the "thump", "thump" of squirrels feeding on the sunflower seeds. Although these were meant for the chickadee's breakfast early in the morning, it kept the little bandits outside.
We had planned to spend two nights at the cabin because by midweek Claude was to play the organ for the Lenten Service. We were to be in Ironwood at approximately six p.m. on Wednesday.
The next morning at dawn the sun colored our white birch a rosy pink and as we ate our breakfast with a beautiful view of the lake some birds were at the feeders. Claude decided to bring the snowmobile to the cabin and I went fishing for a mess of perch for dinner. I caught some too and picked more pussywillows for the table. Then, when my husband returned, I heard the weather forecast on the Ironwood radio station. Temperatures were supposed to drop below zero and there'd be a seventy perchance for snow, possibly with a substantial accumulation.
"They say that to attract the skiing enthusiasts from the cities to 'Big Snow Country'", I said.
"I don't believe that either. It's just good publicity," Claude agreed. "There isn't a cloud in the sky."
During the night I pulled an extra blanket over myself and heard Claude get up several times to feed the stove. "It's a little nasty out there," he said once.
By daylight we could not see across the lake because of the blizzard. Temperatures were twenty degrees below zero. The wind had mad drifts of two to three feet on our path to the outhouse. I made a big pan of oatmeal for breakfast, but when Claude who had been exploring, returned, he suggested that I not set the table. " We have to get out of here fast or we'll be snowed in for days," he said.
Claude decided to leave the sled and whatever else we usually take, behind. "I'll take a trip with just the snowmobile and make a trail and then return for you," he promised.
I've never felt more alone than when I heard that snowmobile turn the corner to disappear behind the hill. Anxiously, I listened for the noise of it's returning. All was quiet except for the somber who' o' o' o' oing of the wind in the pines. How I hated that melancholy sound! What I wanted was the music of that Arctic Cat coming for me. I waited and waited, running to the lake occasionally, then warming up in the cabin again.
Finally I heard Claude's footsteps near the door. Exhausted, he fell into his chair. "I'll stuck in a huge drift at the turnoff near Plymouth Lake, " he said.
"And you had to walk back? I'll fix you a cup of coffee," I said. That's what I always say in an emergency.
"It's horrible out there but we have to get out. They depend on me playing tonight," Claude said. "I'll snowshoe and you ski but it may take us hours before we get to M64,"
By 10 a.m. we were plodding along the trail. To take the route across the lake would make it a mile shorter but at more than twenty degrees below zero we'd freeze to death without the protection of the woods. I stuffed some hard candies in my pocket for extra energy. For six long miles we stumbled through the deep snow, not daring to take a rest. At about three p.m. we came to our parked truck of which only the roof was visible. The blizzard had buried it on one side, the county snowplow on the other.
Claude retrieved a shovel, digging with his hands to free the topper window. When he'd cleared the door of the truck's cab he said, "Pray that it starts, Amy, then we have a place to warm ourselves." He didn't know I'd been praying for hours.
Miraculously the motor did start. Taking turns, we dug out and then finally drove in a complete whiteout to Marenisco. Driving in a blizzard is a most dangerous situation. We hope we are on the road but we're never sure. Very slowly we approached the U.S. 2, a major highway. Only a one-way traffic lane was open but we could see the road again.
At Ironwood the town was deserted. As we turned at the side road where the church is located, I looked at my watch and it was 6 p. m. It had taken us eight hours to travel the thirty-five miles from our cabin at Eel Lake.
Nearing the church we noticed the parking lot had not been plowed out. Claude went to the parsonage next door and the pastor did not dare to stick his nose outside. I did see him shake his head.
When Claude returned he blew his nose hard several times. "Amy, they canceled the Lenten Service because of the weather," he said sadly.
It would take another four hours to drive the twelve miles to our home near Lake Superior, if we'd make it, so we took a motel in town to wait out the storm.
Exhausted, we retired to our soft bed. "Bless you, a faithful servant," I whispered.
