Normally not a superstitious fellow, I have no qualms about doing things on so called vexed days. I think that superstitions are fun ways to express emotions towards things beyond our control. This last Friday the 13th was to be no different for me, at least so I thought when the day began.
The day started off with the possibility of being a great and adventurous day. My wife’s friend had suggested that a small group of us cross country ski to a Yurt located in Mill Hollow. She made all the proper reservations and we prepared for a couple of days of fun and exercise. At the appointed time we arrived at the trailhead where our trek was to begin. There were twelve of us total, nine adults and three children around the age of ten months old. The resident father figure who accompanied us had rented a snowmobile and the rest of us had skis. This was a great relief for me because that meant some of our supplies could be fastened to sleds and pulled behind the snowmobile. After the packs were safely stowed inside the yurt and a fire lit in the stove, the snowmobile would return down the trail to relieve the weary travelers and ferry them deeper into the wilderness.
The weather matched our spirits, which were both unusually on the bright side, as we made our final preparations. We were a little behind schedule but none of us were worried, it was too beautiful a day to weigh oneself down with unnecessary cares. The sleds were tied onto the back of the snowmobile and off he sped. Meanwhile my wife had noticed that the skis and boots she had borrowed from a relative did not match each other, and no amount of force was going to help. Reluctantly, she walked back to the car where one member of our party just happened to have an extra pair of skis that would work. When she returned some of the group had already begun the expedition and three of us anxiously waited. The skis clipped wonderfully into the bindings and off we went. The first strides went smoothly and then I noticed that something did not feel right. My skis seemed to not be sliding but rather gathering the snow. Soon I had four or five inches of snow caked on the bottom of my skis and efficient movement was impossible. I had no choice but to return to the car and retrieve the pair of skis that my wife had just moments before abandoned. Upon my return the first part of our group was nowhere to be seen. That is when we realized that between the four of us who were left, no one had looked at the map which showed the location of our destination. It couldn’t be that hard to find and assuredly the remainder of our group would wait for us eventually.
For me the next few hours were pure physical torture. I greatly underestimated my physical prowess and it showed accordingly. We were going very slowly up the long windy road, as countless snowmobilers zoomed by. It seemed to me that each machine carried a person who was laughing at my every exerted movement. Nevertheless we pressed on.
Suddenly the father figure appeared triumphantly on his noble steed. My spirits rose and I was not so tired, it wouldn’t last much longer. He halted next to us only to report that he had in fact not yet found our destination, but assured us that he was getting close. And with those words he sped off in the direction that he had come. My spirits yet again sank, and on we trudged.
The sun sunk behind the mountain, our valley became encased in shadow and the temperature began to drop. It was at this moment that I believe we began to fear. Not necessarily for us but for the two babies who were being packed on our backs like sacks of potatoes. Surely our location was not much further, and we still had a couple hours of daylight left, before we were engulfed in the blackness of night. We continued up the slopes.
The four of us chatted uncomfortably as we went, avoiding the obvious topics that were at hand. Two of our group appeared behind us; they had taken a wrong turn, and were now on the right path. I took this opportunity to ask for some directions to the yurt, which were given. Look for a guard station, a wooden sign and orange poles. The orange poles mark the path off the road for two miles to the yurt. At last we had some direction. Our friends soon disappeared as they sped off ahead of us. (It was at this point that I was eternally grateful to my group of companions for not leaving me, even though they had the speed to do so.)
Two painful hours later we arrived at the guard station and spotted a wooden sign, and the orange pole. The moon was full and bright, the air was steadily chilling, we were cold tired, and worried. The children were quiet and all seemed still. We discussed turning around and heading for the trailhead. Protect the children and ourselves, surely the others would understand. We had a decision to make and not a lot of time to make it, every minute it was growing colder and our hopes were sinking. What to do…..
