Letters to Smed - The Ice Hut (cont'd)

Hey Smed,

I just had the stew simmering and was reading a story about how Tom Sawyer whitewashed the fence and got to think'in about old Red/Green again...

"Now I want you to envision the scene. We’re sitting on top of a slight slope at the edge of the lake. The lake is obviously frozen solid, in spite of the mild temperatures. Remember that it’s been raining all day and there is now a film of water on top of the already slippery ice. The drop-off where we want to drag the hut to is about ½ km from our present location. We are pulling the hut, which is indeed quite solid, with a sled that has a rubber track and no studs. Need I say more?

In hindsight the logical thing would have been to head for the cottage, relax, and decide upon the best course of action. That, of course, is not what men on a mission do. Smed sneered at the hut as he revved the engine of the sled and ever so slowly the damn hut crested the final slope. Getting up a good head of steam going down the slope we surged out onto the ice with Red-Green once again swaying behind the sled. I must admit that it appeared as if our troubles were indeed over as Smed accelerated away from us while we focused all our attention on trying to stay on our feet.

Half way to our fishing hole the damn hut managed to bring the sled to a halt once again. Water was spraying every which way as Smed revved the engine once again, but the hut refused to move. With Don pushing on the hut and me adding extra traction to the sled we must have made a great sideshow for the other cottagers as we managed to inch our way to our destination.

It always amazes me how quickly adversity becomes nothing more that a good laugh once the adventure ends. A few drams of Scotch helped us realize that it was all just a calamity of errors and not worthy of much additional thought. Or was the damn hut merely getting its second wind.

As the temperature dropped suddenly that evening—from +5c in the afternoon to -25c by 9:00 that evening-- Red-Green did provide us with the necessary heat to thaw our frozen fingers and toes. In fact it was down right balmy. No, I should rephrase that, “The damn hut was damn hot.” It seemed as if the stove was proving to be as temperamental as the hut. It was either too cold or too hot, but never the right temperature."

Well I better get back to stir'in before the stew starts to smoke. I wouldn't want you boys to have any complaints.

Catch ya later,

Ed

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Letters to Smed - The Ice Hut (cont'd)

Hey Smed,

Just came up from checking my gear. Found out why my reel stopped working last winter. Seems that plastic gears don't like -30 degree temps. We should give Sam a call to remind him to pick up his license...

"Little more was said as we packed our belongings onto the remaining sled and filled our hands with the rest. We were at a place where the road narrows even farther and becomes uneven, when we first laid eyes on Red-Green. Its windows peering like two defiant eyes as it teetered on top of a ridge of snow at an awkward angle. There was a sharp bend in one corner of the roof. When I asked Smed what happened, all he said was, “Hit a dam tree!” I jokingly queried as to whether the sled broke before or after he hit the tree. “Right after,” he said. We all stared at the hut but didn’t say another word.

Deciding that further discussion might prove hazardous and that discretion might be the best option at this point, we blasted off toward the cottage, unloaded our luggage and then back down the road we plodded to see if we could convince the dam hut, as it was now affectionately known, to follow us to the lake.

Smed manned the remaining sled and slowly took up the slack as we sunk in our heels and pushed at the back. After a slight protest it was off again, swaying from side-to-side down the road. I’m not sure, but judging by the way that he was driving, Smed seemed determined to turn the dam hut into firewood. He rounded the final bend near the cottage, and with the lake was only a few meters away Red-Green slammed the brakes on once again.

Snow had piled so high at the front of the hut that it brought the sled to a grinding halt. The challenge was now personal. The hut had already ruined Smed’s favorite machine and elevated his blood pressure to unimaginable heights, but the battle of wills continued. Normally calm, calculated and collected Smed’s eyes glowed and became almost demonic. Blue smoke belched from the sled as Smed was clearly determined to win the battle. Those of us that were still somewhat grounded in reality rushed to the sled and convinced him to concede this one to the hut before we had no sleds to use at all.

Out came the shovels and soon we were ready to edge onto the ice. Smed was convinced by this time that the hut was alive and hated him. Even though the ice was a good foot thick he was sure it must be doomed to sink."

Well Smed ole' buddy I'm off to pick up some supplies...won't be long now!

Ed

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Letters to Smed - The Ice Hut (continued)

Hey Smed,

Back at ya again. Well I got to thinkin' that good ol Red/Green must be just about out of surprises but I do have to chuckle when I think back to that first trip...

"Don and I arrived later that afternoon, after navigating backroads that looked more like rivers than roads, and were looking forward to relaxing in a nice, warm ice-hut, that would of course by now be sitting on the ice over a school of Walleye. Now I should point out that this location is not one where you just drive up and walk out onto the ice. The cottage is a good ½ hr. walk from where we park the cars. But thanks to the virtues of modern technology we were able to call Smed and arrange to have him meet us at the parking lot with his snow machine. He usually has two machines with him, one that’s left at the parking lot for us to follow him down the cottage road while our luggage and copious fishing equipment and supplies are packed around us and tied to the sleds. There was to be nothing usual about this trip…..

Smed was waiting for us at the parking lot when we arrived. At first glance it was clear that he was not a happy camper. When I asked where the second sled was the floodgate opened.

“I think I wrecked the $^%#*& thing when I was trying to pull that $%^&*?? hut down the road,” he replied.

Now Smed is not known for being the most patient type and was not about to wait for help before dragging Red Green down the road, a trait that seems to be more common amongst the male population than is evident with the opposite gender. I guess that’s why our wives never join us on these trips. They would never understand our inflexibility and need to act on impulse with no real plan or rational. Now believe me, I have nothing against, and even encourage, women to accompany their men on outdoor adventures, but think of how many good stories would be lost if we always acted in a rational manner."

Well I better head out to clear the driveway before the missus gets home. I don't want to wind up with a sprained wrist again...oh yeah, another ice hut story...

Ed

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Letters to SMED - The Ice Hut

Hey Smed,

I just got through reading the 2007 "Darwin Awards" (http://darwinawards.com/ ) and got to thinkin about our annual ice fishing trip. Man I can remember the first time we laid eyes on that ol' shack like it was yesterday:

"The ice-hut was conceived from thoughts of frozen toes and a runny nose. And, according to Sam, it would be a nice place to relax and read a good book if the fish weren’t biting. It became a living, breathing thing on a cold January day in a carpenter’s workshop, several hours drive from its final destination. Isn't an ice-hut, something that's designed to give warmth and shelter to cold weary fisherman, a thing that should be crafted lovingly with ones own hands? Could it be that it resented being traded for a couple of maple logs cut from Sam’s woodlot?

Perhaps even inanimate objects have feelings and require an element of respect. Sometimes that respect is inherent, like when you gaze upon a well-crafted fishing rod or reel. Other times it must grow over time, like a new pair of boots. In rare circumstances the object blatantly demands your respect, something that may take years to realize.

Red-Green, affectionately named after the fictitious TV handyman, arrived at the lake in late January, the biting depths of the Southern Ontario winter, during the worst thunderstorm I’d seen in years. Fields were flooded and took on the appearance of small lakes. Streams turned to raging torrents and gnawed through the constraints of their banks at every opportunity. Was it coincidence, or omen of things to come?"

...Well Smed ol' buddy we need to make some plans. Talk to ya soon.

Ed

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