Dashing through the snow

From what I hear, Tiger Woods has seen a dip in the number of his product endorsements. In an effort to take up the slack, I thought I'd pass along my opinions on a product I've been impressed with.

Noreen and I are spending much more time at the cottage in the winter than we anticipated. We're up here almost as often as we are in the summer. Between ice fishing, snowshoeing and -- OK, we admit it -- laying around reading and knitting, we find a visit to the north country to be a perfect antidote to the pressures of our city jobs.

One thing that's NOT very relaxing up here in the winter is the roads. They can be a bit scary at times, especially County Road 459, which we take for the final eight miles to the cottage. It occasionally resembles a cross between a cross country ski trail and a luge run.

We can't really blame the various governments up here too much because they're poor as church mice and don't have the resources to maintain the roads like they should. Bottom line is that we've had some interesting driving up here.

Last week we were watching some videos online that showed impressive performance differences on snow and ice between all-season tires and winter tires. We thought "Let's give 'em a try."

I researched winter tires and found that they had changed a great deal from the "snow tires" of my youth. Back then the vast majority of American cars were rear-wheel-drive and folks just put honking big tires with deep, aggressive treads on the rear wheels.

Today's winter tires are not noticeable unless you look close. They have a much more "normal" looking tread and are always put on all four wheels. They also tend to perform fairly normally on warm dry pavement, unlike their predecessors.

We ended up buying Michelin X-Ice Xi2 tires and a set of four wheels to make them easier to swap out. I had already been leaning toward them when a friend with a Consumer Reports membership offered to check their Web site and, lo and behold, they were top rated.

The bad qualities of old snow tires were:

1. Noisy. Often at freeway speeds you couldn't even hold a conversation.
2. Poor tread life. The relatively soft rubber compound wore very quickly.
3. Lousy fuel economy. You might pay a penalty of 20% or more in fuel consumption. Not such a big deal back when gas was 89 cents a gallon, but would be painful now!

Michelin claims to have (mostly) dealt with these issues and, so far, I'm impressed.

Noreen and I drove the 220 miles up here from Detroit at speeds generally between 70 and 80 miles per hour and had no problem holding a normal conversation. We both agreed that if there was any increase in sound level it was minor. Problem number one solved.

We have one of those fuel economy gauges on the dash that we both take with a grain of salt. Of course the manufacturer wants you to believe that you're getting good fuel economy. But the RELATIVE number only dropped one mpg, and we've often seen variations based on a strong headwind, lots of stop and go, etc. Also, when you've made the trip as many times as we have you have a very good sense of how much fuel it takes. The one mile per gallon number looks realistic to us. That would translate into a 4% penalty with the new tires. Not bad. Problem number two addressed.

Tread life remains to be seen and perhaps I'll offer an update at the end of the season. Michelin brags that they're using a new silica-based (?!?!) tire compound that allows a soft winter compound with 75% less wear than their nearest competitor. We'll see.

"What about the performance on snow and ice, dumbbell!" you might ask, and rightfully so. That's the whole point of the exercise, right? So far I've been very impressed. Although the roads up here this weekend don't rank with the worst we've seen, they're spooky enough. We had a day of rain up here this past week, followed by a rapid temperature drop, followed by snow and high winds. The roads are basically glare ice with a thin coating of powdery snow on top. The tires have acquitted themselves quite well with the ABS going on very infrequently and no loss of adhesion in the curves.

All in all, the tires are doing the job they're supposed to do and we feel safer in poor winter driving conditions.

Buckless in Yooperland

In my never-ending efforts to find new outdoor activities to not be good at, I tried deer hunting last year. The 2008 season consisted mostly of me wandering around aimlessly in the woods near Hillman hoping that the world's stupidest (or most suicidal) deer would saunter up to me.

Perhaps taking pity on me, Noreen's brother Norb (the slender guy at left in the picture above) invited me this year to a real deer camp with his friends in Michigan's Upper Peninsula near Au Train. We would be hunting in the magnificent Hiawatha National Forest, which qualifies as wilderness by anyone's measure.

The three other hunters have well over 100 years of deer hunting experience between them. Ted alone, at the tender age of 81, has more than a half century all by himself. I hope that I'm as tough a bird when, and if, I reach that age. So hopefully I could learn something from these guys.

The cabin is right on Lake Superior with a spectacular view of the lake. That's it nestled in the trees at the left of the frame.

The first morning found us trudging through the woods to our blinds with a heavy frost causing the leaves beneath our feet to crunch like potato chips. My headlamp cast a narrow cone of light and I occasionally thought of the many tens of thousands of acres of forest that I COULDN'T see. I sincerely hoped that nothing was hunting me while I was hunting. Once settled in my blind, I opened my small thermos and had my first cup of coffee of the day (Note to experienced deer hunters: I know, I know. The fresh coffee violates the "no odor" rule, but cut me some slack. Addiction is a terrible thing. And it sure tasted wonderful!). One thing I learned over the next couple days was that 2 1/2 hours motionless in a blind is about my limit. Yep. After 150 minutes, I have to start walking or I'll lose my mind.

And beautiful walks they were. It really is a spectacular place. Here's a photo of the lovely pond that Ted had his blind hidden above. Even though it's only mid-November, the pond had a layer of ice on the surface. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan is a harsh place as well as a beautiful one. One of the "thoroughfares" that I walked a couple times was the North Country Pathway, a hiking trail that stretches from the east coast to the Dakotas. I obviously didn't walk THAT far, but I did about seven miles on it the one day with just my rifle and a daypack.

At one point I sat on a log and rested for ten minutes. I was suddenly aware of something approaching. It was a doe. She was wary and moving slowly. My camouflage was effective because she came within 50 feet of me and gave no indication of seeing me. She would pause and lift her head and sniff the air. She couldn't see me, but she seemed to be able to smell me. Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, she left the path and headed east through the woods. As soon as she entered the full cone of my scent downwind, she hastened her pace and disappeared. Where's your boyfriend, I wondered. But he never showed. Nevermind. It was a magic moment in a magic place.

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The danger of fear

As we approach the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing, I'm thinking about the dangers of adventure and whether we, as Americans, have become too risk averse.

Back in the early days of the shuttle program, NASA was taken by surprise by the amount of publicity generated by their "Teacher in Space" program. They found that by reserving one of the seats on the shuttle for an "average" person, they humanized what was starting to look like a dull program.

They cleverly started a follow-on "Journalist in Space" program and I, of course, immediately sent away for the reams of paperwork needed to apply for the slot. I was a licensed pilot with some hours in high-performance military aircraft as a result of covering the military and aerospace (i.e. I wouldn't puke when faced with some Gs or violent maneuvers). Plus, I was a photographer who also could write (a "twofer!") and had a philosophical bent I had demonstrated in my writings. Last -- but definitely not least -- I had grown up and currently lived and worked in a major media market.

For NASA had discovered a way to turn PR straw into media gold.

Months after my application I received a very official-looking document telling me I was a "semi-finalist" for the ride into orbit.

I just about went into orbit when I got the news. It took me a while to realize just how many "semi-finalists" there were. Because, you see, NASA had learned that every paper, TV station and radio station in the "almost a winner's" town would go three shades of batshit in their coverage of the hometown boy or girl. ESPECIALLY if the honoree worked for that media outlet.

At the paper where I worked, which was admittedly very large, there were THREE of us at the paper who had gotten the letter. Now this was a news operation of hundreds of people, but it just seemed a little too good to be true. But we kept telling ourselves that SOMEBODY was going to get to go and that we were special enough to get the nod.

I don't even remember what hoops they had planned for us to jump through for the next stage of the screening process, but they may have involved a singing contest or spelling bee.

Back to the risk issue ...

Not long after we got our letters the day finally came to launch the teacher into orbit. Sadly, we all know what came next.

After the accident, as the media writhed and squirmed to gather every single tidbit of information for their space disaster "packages," some of them began to remember those of us who were supposed to be next in the space publicity pipeline. I, and one of the other two candidates at the paper, were interviewed by the TV networks and splashed on the screen.

My quote was something like "As regrettable as this is, put another shuttle on the pad tomorrow morning and I'll meet you there ready to go." The other guy said something similar and, knowing him, I'm convinced he meant it just as much as I did.

In the early days of airline travel in the 1920s and 1930s aircraft were literally falling out of the sky. It was before the days of good instruments and the beacons to talk to them. Aircraft weren't pressurised, so they had to fly THROUGH the weather instead of over it like we do know. Flying in an airliner was still very, very dangerous. And yet, the numbers of passengers increased every year.

I covered the development of the space shuttle and the first few missions. I remember the engineers and project managers insisting on the record that the program would be very safe. But, off the record, after a couple beers, they were quietly of the opinion that in the total run of the program they would probably lose one shuttle in the boost, or launch, phase and one in the re-entry phase. And now, as the program winds down to its conclusion, after more than 125 missions, that's exactly how it has turned out.

So, was it a dangerous program? Of course! You can't strap millions of tons of thrust to your butt, be hurled into a deadly vacuum, and then return at a speed that would melt lead without incurring risk. Was it an UNREASONABLE risk? No.

Some of us will mark the anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing with a quiet moment or maybe a flute of champagne. Some will ignore it. But way too many Americans believe the entire space program was too risky and unpredictable a venture to have undertaken in the first place.

I think that's a damn shame. And a double damn shame that the next astronauts who try to say something philosophical and portentious when their boots hit moon dust will be speaking Chinese.

Kitten of the Sea

As I mentioned in a previous post, despite a lot of preparation and homework, I had a heckuva time landing my first fish. No matter what I tried, I was just a wannabe fisherman. Then, after years of struggling, suddenly, there he was! I hauled a pretty big smallmouth bass into the boat two weeks ago. What changed, I asked myself?

Not long before my triumphant fishing expedition, the animal rights organization PETA (People for the Eccentric Treatment of Animals) had started a PR campaign involving the oppressed piscine population. They wanted to remind people how cute fish are (like the cuddly guy pictured above) and start fish on the road to being fully-engaged, taxpaying members of society.

I must say, though, that the part of their campaign that affected me the most was their insistence that fish now be referred to as "Sea Kittens." I paid little attention at the time, but I think a seed had been planted -- perhaps subconsciously -- by their clever maneuver. Up until then, I had been INTELLECTUALLY engaged in the pursuit, but not viscerally. When I would think of a captured fish, my digestive juices did not begin to flow. My salivary glands did not work overtime. I didn't have the immediacy, the focus of the subsistence hunter and gatherer.

But the PETA campaign changed all that. Who hasn't had their mouth water at the thought of a breaded, broiled, sauteed or steamed kitten. With hush puppies. And some cole slaw. The next time I went out I was ... I WAS PUMPED! And the result was ... a smallmouth bass.

Thanks PETA!

P.S. I released the bass, so PETA's important work is not entirely done.

Unmasked

The more observant of my thousands of followers point out that I refer to a mystery woman named "Noreen" in my latest entry and want to know if I'm cheating on Ms. X. Actually, no. They are one in the same and my age-addled brain forgot to conceal her identity. When I first started this blog, she was concerned that the notoriety would invade her privacy. A few glances at my readership numbers reassured her on that point.

It also occurs to me that I haven't bandied my first name about either. So from here on, it's Steve and Noreen.

Fish story

I'm collecting cheap or free hobbies to enjoy in retirement. With the cottage such a big part of our lives, Noreen and I decided we needed to learn how to fish. She was actually revisiting a pastime that had been a cherished part of her childhood. Fishing with Dad was a frequent and much-loved activity.

I, on the other hand, was a city boy who had never seriously fished in his life. Piece of cake, I thought. If all those illiterate hillbillies with chaws in their cheeks are pulling 'em in, it'll be a snap for me.

We fished and fished and fished. Weeks went by. Seasons went by. We fished from our boat. We fished from our dock. We fished on the ice.

I occasionally got a nibble or even a bite, but I never landed one. I began to feel like Jeff Daniels, "The Buckless Yooper," in "Escanaba in da Moonlight." This sure is a heckuva lot harder than losing my virginity, I thought. Those hillbillies began to look a lot smarter. Scholarly, even.

I continued to read and watch YouTube videos. I watched shows on the Outdoor Channel. I read columns in Field & Stream by guys named "Buck" and "Red."

Last weekend it finally happened. Noreen and I were sitting in our boat in "The Narrows" on our lake and I felt a tug on my line. It was a good sized smallmouth bass. He pulled. I pulled. I eventually lifted him into the boat. Hurray! I'm glad that's over with. I gently removed the hook, lowered him into the water, swished him around until he wiggled and then watched him swim away. I had long resolved to put back the first fish as an offering to the fish gods and it was easy to keep that vow because, at 12-inches, he wasn't a keeper.

Noreen has often said to me that her father enjoyed fishing whether he was catching them or not. He was a wise man. That's been true for me, too.

But it still felt good to finally catch one!