Andy and I decided to ski across the lake. Skidoo tracks span it’s entire surface in crisscross patterns. At night, I’ve observed the machines from the living room window, dancing like fireflies in the dark.
There is a section near town, in an inlet, where water has percolated over the ice, forming large puddles. Open water? An object was embedded in the ice nearby, resembling a giant bumblebee, nose up, from its black and yellow stripes. It must be a skidoo, I surmised and hoped the driver was able to jump to safety.
It was cold. I felt a pain between my eyes when crossing, facing the wind, reminiscent of the pain of eating ice cream on a hot summer afternoon – nothing a hot pot of tea couldn’t cure.