This weekend past, the wife and I rented a car, loaded up the dog, and headed north to her ancestral homestead.
My knee was feeling a bit wonky, so I didn’t take a bike. Also, I’d not gotten around to putting tires with any tread (instead of the Big Apples) on the Albatross.
Instead, I took the hiking boots, figuring I’d go for a long afternoon hike while the wife and the mother-in-law were baking cookies, or doing one of the two dozen other things that they were supposedly going to do in the slightly more than 24 hours that we’d be there.
There was some snow on the ground when we arrived, courtesy of a couple of inches that fell in the middle of last week. After a late, longish lunch at the brew pub in Minocqua, I laced up the boots and took the dog for a tour around the more wooded areas of the farm.
About the same time I started out on my walk, it started to snow again. It didn’t take long before I realized my mistake. I had no snow bike.
So, a new rule: Do not sell the snow bike in mid-summer with no thought for the coming of winter.
The dog doesn’t seem to mind though; she did after all get a nearly two-hour walk out of it. And there were rabbits, deer, grouse. Also, judging by the tracks, a couple of wolves.
And by the next morning, there was another six inches of fresh, new snow.