To this land of frozen splendor,
icy cliffs and clinging snow,
Came the brave intrepid skiers
where the timid dare not go.
Most had ventured here beforetimes,
mastering these arduous trails,
Yet exists such daunting prospects
that the most stouthearted quails.
Came a Friday morning frigid -
posed this challenge to the troop:
Who will face the numbing blizzard,
conquering the Hotshot Loop?
Faces fell: with eyes averted,
most within the lodge demurred.
Was it the sub-zero weather,
or the distance which deterred?
When it seemed that pride would suffer,
honor dim and glory fade,
Then stepped forward Mark and Randy:
"We will see this journey made."
Though the others dared not question
such brave spirit. Yet they thought:
Ought we to permit exposure
to ordeals with danger fraught?
Then Tom Lee, congenial veteran,
Master of the Frozen North,
Said. "I'll groom the way before you,"
took the Tundra, and set forth.
And the resolute explorers
donned their gear and strode from view:
Soon the ridge they had surmounted,
down the Suicide they flew.
Skimming upright round all corners
they the valley entered in,
Where the unimpeded gale winds
stung and numbed uncovered skin.
Tirelessly they traveled onward,
passed through Eton, waved to Bill,
And without a pause for resting,
scaled the steeps of Mill Lake Hill.
Through the snow-encrusted forest,
up and down each grueling grade,
Ice-encrusted lids and lashes
Squint in sun and chilling shade.
There! Fierce wolf-prints went before them,
Vivid on the fresh-groomed snow:
But the duo feared no creature,
turned not back, nor thought to slow.
Suddenly a rushing torrent,
swelled by recent thaw and rain,
Barred the only path before them
but one option did remain.
Randy clambered up the trailside,
hurtled down to cross the flow,
But the spruce-bough bridge provided
sagged into the stream below.
Mark attempted this objective,
but the water gripped his skis,
And he quickly was imperiled,
plunging to his hands and knees.
Having donned his extra mittens,
all their gear with ice encased.
They must chisel skis and bindings
or with great ordeal be faced.
Fingers numbed, they struggled onward
till, approaching, Tom was seen
Thwarted at the Otter crossing
by the weighty snow-machine.
Spurning shelter, they pressed forward,
though flung down by Moosehorn curve.
Coated branches lashed their faces,
Yet their progress did not swerve.
At a wide, deceptive crossing,
they realized that they had found
Where the wily northwoods groomer,
Thomas Lee, had turned around.
Calmly they surveyed the prospect -
halting here, they'd have a jam.
Therefore they, not hesitating,
inched across the beaver dam.
Skis perched barely on the summit,
snow cascading down each side,
Heedless of the chilling waters,
their success was not denied.
Tall upon the frozen shoreline,
on as yet untrammeled trail,
Plunged into the rugged wildness,
now assured they would not fail.
Tired by miles and sapped by coldness,
spurred by thoughts of Shirley's food,
Past Pike Lake and Rollercoaster,
till, triumphant, camp they viewed!
And their peers gave adulation,
as will all who time do take
For a true appreciation
of a trip to Windy Lake.
Randy Mulder
January 20, 1996