When we were kids my Dad would pull my younger sister and I behind either the four-wheeler or the ski-doo on skis through the snow. Not downhill skis either, cross country skis. It was so much fun but took a lot of coordination to hang onto the rope and keep those long skinny skis from crossing.
He’d pull us across fields or down the river, for miles. Sometimes in the spring, the river would be slushy on top and we’d be plowing through four inches of slush, barreling down the river. Our feet would be soaked by the time we got home. I wish I had pictures of that.
He’d also pull us on tubes behind the ski-doo, flinging us around and around in circles in the snow, ’til we were woozy. There’s a picture of me somewhere, laying on my back on a tube, being pulled behind a snowmobile when I was 8 months pregnant with Cordelia. I wanted to prove I could still do anything.
Once a winter or so, we’d pack up food, drinks, fishing rods, bait and head up into the Porcupine Mountains with Dad and some of his friends, snowmobiles on trailers or in the back of the truck, to spend a day ice fishing on south Steeprock Lake.
The drive up the so called mountain took about 45 minutes and once up there we unloaded the snowmobiles and packed all of our goods onto sleighs. We headed across the lake, through a trail in the bush and came out on the other side onto a smaller lake.
We’d build a fire on the ice, cook some sausage, drink some hot chocolate or coffee and try to catch fish.
It was an all day adventure, not returning home until well after dark. Usually chilled to the bone and exhausted.
As an adult, life feels less “fun”. It’s not really full of these types of adventures and fun is not my middle name. I’m pretty dull. If you asked me now what is my idea of a good time, I’m not even sure how I’d reply. This might not be the place to describe all the types of fun, as an adult.
bloom.planted.north 
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