There was a time when winter sports were a regular part of my life.
When I was younger and less brittle we would mark the passage of winter by traveling to the Eastern Sierra for the late-April trout season opener. That trip often included a day or two on the slopes of Mammoth Mountain, a peak so perfectly placed its leeward face collects snow like my black Simms fleece jacket gathers white setter hair from the couch.
There are devices designed to remove pet hair from upholstery, but all seem inadequate for the task. I’m considering a start-up that will manufacture handles to which you can attach your favorite dark-colored fleece coat — which we all know is essentially a tuxedo jacket in Montana — and you then rub that fleece across a hair-covered surface, de-furring it.
We skied Mammoth during the winter season as well, when the snow wasn’t so cement-like, but I was less keen on a seven-hour drive that didn’t include some fishing or hunting at the end of it.
There were mountains closer, where I could ski for a day and make it home for supper. Since I was the sort of guy who skied in a pair of Levis sprayed with Scotchgard, day trips were more my speed.
In those mountains stable lake ice wasn’t a thing, however, so ice fishing culture was alien to me. It was something you did in far-off northern lands, beyond the Wall. It wasn’t until I moved to Montana that I finally gave ice fishing a try. It was fun enough, but I never caught the bug.
Ice fishing is a lot like skiing in that there are considerable barriers to entry in the form of costly gear. That’s why I was always a rental guy when it came to skiing and why I never took a deep plunge into ice fishing.
To be a serious ice angler you need a shack and at least one sacrificial four-wheel-drive vehicle to pull it onto solid water. Preferably, this vehicle is rusted out enough you won’t be too bothered when it falls through the ice.
You can ice fish without a shack, but if you’re targeting muskie on a Sunday afternoon a sturdy shelter facilitates watching the Packers game between bites.
Most outdoor activities come with a financial gear summit you must conquer when you go all in. I stopped counting at 10 fly rods, but the semiserious can get by on the cheap. I caught a lot of trout on my first fly rod, bought at Kmart for $25, and I skied on rental equipment wearing blue jeans treated with a water repellent made from toxic chemicals.
I didn’t ski on my last ski trip as I’d decided to give snowboarding a whirl. The twins and I went to Blacktail Mountain for lessons and an afternoon on the slopes. Things started well. I skateboarded a bit when I was young and it gave me an edge over the twins, who struggled more than I through lessons. After class, I zipped down the slopes a couple of times before we stopped for lunch.
A smarter man would have retired to the lodge, taking the win. But this is me we’re talking about.
After lunch, the twins, athletic, twenty-something runners and former high school soccer players, were just hitting their stride. I had one decent run, then a disastrous, crash-filled second. Exhausted, I struggled to the lift for a ride back to the lodge. By then a crowd had gathered at the top of the mountain and sensing an audience, I crashed, spectacularly, while de-lifting. I clawed across the ice to get out of the path of the next group, struggled to get upright, and finally, mercifully, made it to the lodge.
I love winter. I just love it more in a warm country, where winter sports don’t involve ice.