Dad had already "stunk up" the basement with the annual pine tar ski base treatments. Cable bindings were working clean. Growing feet had been fitted into the hand me down leather boots. It was time to load the '57 Chev skimobile wagon and head toward the Harbor.
First stop was Phoenix Farm Road. It had the best snow. Dad tied the summer ski ropes to the back bumper. We flexed our muscles and zoomed along with Boots barking on our heels. Went up and down that road til Dad said, "We have other trails to ski." He put the kibosh on our youthful exuberant demands to ski the final curve into the Harbor.
After checking out the cold sleeping cottage, we headed for Lake Elisa and what are now polished groomed ski trails. Deer paths were our guides. They wound through the sunshine and white snow. There were no snowmobiles to break the silence....only...."Dad, did you see where the deer ate this tree?" " D'ya suppose the Indians used these trails, too?" "Hey, ya think that mound will move and it will be a bear?" "No, stupid, if it was a bear, Boots would a barked by now, huh, Dad." "We gotta try to find this trail next summer!" "Dad, are we gonna fall into Round Lake?".......
Rosy cheeked grins and snow pilled mittened hands drank up the thermosed hot chocolate and piled back into the skimobile....Another adventure completed for the memory banks of maturity.
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