Non-Fiction: Snowshoeing the Ice Age Trail, Holy Hill Segment

This piece of "micro travel-writing" is one of a few that I will be posting in the next couple weeks.

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It is the mark of a great friendship when, in the anticipation of an invigorating jaunt through the woods, both people end up standing knee-deep in snow, the car half buried and laughing.

It is a beautiful sight - unmarked snow - and Michael and I are anxious to trudge through the hilly terrain around Holy Hill The Basilica of the National Shrine of Mary, Help of Christians, in our snowshoes.

Holy Hill is a minor basilica located on a kame surrounded by 400 acres of woods. The Ice Age Trail is a series of scenic trails running through 1,200 miles across the state of Wisconsin. Michael and I are familiar with the Ice Age Trail, fondly claiming it as “our thing” - summer hikes through forested trails and, on this occasion, a winter snowshoe hike up and down the majestic landscape surrounding Holy Hill.

The newly fallen snow is misleading, making it seem as if the side of the road did indeed have a shoulder to park along. There is no shoulder. And as we pull off the car slides dramatically down a small ditch as if mimicking the slow descent of ice cream down the side of a waffle cone. A few minutes of tire spinning later Michael and I both agree we are stuck.

I do not panic as I remember  the previous summer in which the car was stuck in sand. Michael and I dug ourselves out of the sand that time, I was confident we could this time.

With no shovel, Michael and I got on our hands and knees and began scooping the snow away from the tires like mad little dogs in search of a promised bone.

Michael is a good sport and we find ourselves laughing at this eerily familiar predicament. As we continue to fail at getting the car unstuck I put my hand up to wave at elderly church-goers as they peer from their Cadillacs and SUVs, looks of concern on their faces.

One woman stops her car and rolls down the window. She offers her help, but we both wave her away not wanting to involve another person.

Michael is confident we can dig our way out and I trust him.

It is a different man named Michael who saves us from this mild crisis and he is driving a huge tractor. With the sun slowly setting behind us into its bed beneath the trees Michael-in-the-tractor has the look of an angel - grungy overalls, big woolen mittens, and a scraggly beard. In John Wayne-like fashion Michael-in-the-tractor tosses a chain to my Michael who secures it underneath the car.

Both Michaels, both with chivalrous grins on their faces (although my Michael is beginning to show signs of annoyance) are behind the wheel - one at the tractor, one at the car. In a matter of minutes, the car is on the road again.

Michael and I laugh, and shiver from being wet with snow, as we follow Michael-in-the-tractor to a parking lot near the Ice Age trailhead. I look back at the tire marks in the otherwise unblemished snow - those are the marks of a great friendship.