In September 1969, Dick and I began our year in the wilderness on the edge of the BWCWA in the Superior National Forest. Our small cabin had neither road access nor amenities. This is a reprint of one of many stories about our lives during that special year.
I peered at the thermometer— 25 below! Returning to the warmth of the fireplace, I asked Dick over my steaming coffee mug, “Should we go out to the Trail today?”
“The path needs new markers,” Dick reminded me.
We had good reasons for keeping a marked snowmobile trail. Back in 1969, snowmobiles weren’t the powerful speedy machines of today. They frequently mired in slush. We didn’t need that.
Dick’s love of speed hadn’t helped the situation either. Somehow, he had managed to combine a small snowmobile with a gigantic engine. Our snowmobile flew like the wind over a packed trail, but was worthless in deep snow or slush. To keep us linked to civilization and out of danger, we marked a trail and kept it hard packed with frequent use.
Maintaining the trail was one of many chores filling our days. The endless winter wind often obliterated our markers. We planned to get the mail this morning and remark the snowmobile path, but overnight plummeting temperatures had turned the air frigid.
Still—we hadn’t gone anywhere for a week; we were antsy. Our eyes met in silent agreement. To heck with the cold. We’d go.
I dressed in my “arctic” ensemble… itchy, warm wool underwear… thermal underwear… quilted underwear… corduroy jacket…wool hat…nose and mouth mask…goggles… a scarf tucked into the jacket collar.
Two pairs of wool socks and Sorels guaranteed warm feet. Wool liners under leather chopper mittens guaranteed warm hands.
When I finally lurched into the bright winter day, not a skin cell was exposed. I felt confident. I felt warm. I felt like a mummy. Dick also was ready for the cold, but wearing a mere two layers. The dog was perfectly cozy in her fur coat.
Dick started the snowmobile and I hopped on the sled, which was filled with hazel brush. With the dog circling in sheer joy, we zoomed down the cold white stretches of Tucker Lake. Dick stopped every hundred yards so I could jab a hazel brush stick into the snow.
When we reached the trail, I was cold, but the trip had been worthwhile. Our mailbox was filled with letters and magazines. I placed the mail in the backpack with numb fingers. “Don’t waste time,” I suggested as we turned towards home.
I offered our malamute a ride on the sled, but she looked at me with disgust. She was a sled dog. She wanted to run.
By the time we reached the narrows on Tucker, my toes and fingers felt chilled to the bone. Frosty air seeped into my goggles. The nose and mouth openings on my face mask were icy with frost.
How cold was it? Grinding cold. Ice-cube cold. Paralyzing cold.
Finally, the sight of our little cabin with its wonderful wisp of chimney smoke appeared. Relieved, we quickly clambered to the inside warmth, which felt positively tropical.
Nooky stayed outside, cooling down by rolling on her back and burying her muzzle in the snow. Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the door, ready to come in.
Soon the dog was snoozing on the wood floor, and Dick and I were holding hot coffee mugs, inhaling the fragrant steam. I settled in to read my mail, all cabin fever gone. It was wonderful to be in the snug cabin.
How cold was it? The next morning our thermometer registered 49 below, and I spent that entire day with feet propped up on the Franklin stove.
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