Well, I did eat yesterday, so perhaps that’s not entirely accurate. What I mean is that I went trekking in the woods, with just my two feet and no fancy wicking-wear or gear.
This was yesterday. I go for a jaunt at least a couple times a week, and near enough to my house that I don’t have to take our only vehicle.
I’ve been pining for snowshoes for quite a while now, but I haven’t been able to brave the expense as of yet. I find that if I wait a few days after a snow, then someone with fancy-schmancy snowshoes will break trail for me, and I can get off into the woods where only that mysterious big-footed human-creature has traveled.
That way, I get off the snowmobile trails and out onto the creek. I sometimes brave the knee deep snow sans trail, but sometimes it gets to be a little much. Following the snowshoer yesterday, I got this view of Amity Creek:
The snowmobiles were a constant presence in the woods yesterday. Which I must confess irritates the crap out of me, no matter how buddhist I try to be. They sound like wheezy gigantic angry mosquitoes, killing the wintry silence, and despite the fact that I feel some compassion for the business owners, I’m glad that my hometown paper says people are buying fewer of these things. (Try bugmenot.com) I consider it on a par with those who are getting less botox and buying fewer SUVs. I mean really, the world could do without recreational vehicles, please. (People who have to get little Joey to the hospital in a blizzard because he sliced off his finger? Okay.)
Though I find it puzzling why anyone would call blasting through the woods on a stinky loud, polluting machine while helmeted “enjoying the outdoors”, my real reasons for hating those infernal things is because of what I see when I’m on foot where they’ve been.
Like this “trail” complete with mangled roots:
and this meadow where they decide every snowy winter that they can flatten every square inch:
If it isn’t a crime to do what they do, it oughta be, IMNSHO. Fuckers. (Yes, that’s right: fuckers.)
I found this little guy so stunned by being run over that when he managed to dig his way through the compacted snow, he didn’t even hear me approach.
When I heard more of the beasts approaching, I shooed him off the trails. Not that that will prevent him from being toast in the future.
I don’t know if it’s bitter to say so, but I long for the day when recreational snowmobilers find it too expensive to fuel their machines. Yeah, the woods won’t miss ’em.
Happiness 