âText me when you leave and call me if anything comes up.â
âI will.â
I reserved a room for her, and as I was slipping the keycard into my pocket, Jake emerged from the doorway. After a quick âGood morning,â he filled up a coffee cup, grabbed two donuts, and we headed for the car.
It had to be close to zero outside, and the windchill made the air feel like a wire brush scraping across my face.
âGonna be a cold one,â he said.
It already is.
âYes,â I replied.
Though the sun was still low, the day had started shockingly bright, with the early morning sunlight splintering sharply off the snow. It didnât look at all like a blizzard was on its way.
Looks can be deceiving.
I used the voice recognition on my phoneâs GPS program to ask for directions to Tomahawk Lake, and we took off.
17
Snowmobile trails paralleled us on either side of the road, just beyond the snowbanks that had been shoved onto the shoulders by the plows.
If youâve never seen a snow-covered field or forest in the North, you might imagine that the snow all looks the same, but it doesnât. Because of the various angles of the flakes reflecting the sunlight, the woods look like they have thousands of tiny diamonds winking at you as you drive by.
Although we were a little north of Wisconsinâs prime farm country, I still saw a few cement silos resting beside barns nestled on rock or concrete foundations to help the boards weather the snow.
But most prominently, I was impressed by the sight of the forests all around us, rolling dense and thick over the hills. Birch and poplar filled in the gaps between the picturesque pines, most of which were burdened with a thick layer of postcard-worthy snow. And, from growing up in this state, I knew that beyond those trees, hidden deep in those woods, were impenetrable marshes and countless isolated lakesâWisconsin has over fifteen thousand lakes, more than nine thousand of which still remain unnamed.
But the one we were going to was not.
We arrived at Tomahawk Lake and parked at the north shore boat landing.
No state troopers or sheriffâs deputies were there yet, and I was glad because it gave me the chance to look around uninterrupted.
Rather than police tape, yesterdayâs responding officers had set up wooden blockades and orange highway cones enclosing the snowmobile tracks that led to the broken ice. Considering the locale and the likelihood that this was the scene of an accident rather than a homicide, it was about all they could do.
A twelve-foot extension ladder was chained to a sign beside the boat landing. I guessed the officers or state troopers had laid on it in order to get closer to the break in the ice when they were placing the cones.
From my research last night, I knew that the lakeâs open water was caused by a series of powerful underground springs. The ribbon of water, at least a hundred meters long and a dozen meters wide, looked like a giant eel twisting along the ice, rolling over whenever the sharp wind troubled its surface.
Though we werenât far from Highway K, the snow-laden trees lining the shore softened the sound of cars and distant snowmobiles, leaving a deep silence that only a few birdsongs tapered into.
Jake avoided the ice for the moment and walked along the shoreline. I saw that he was on the phone.
I took some time to study the lake before heading onto the ice. Tomahawk Lake was vaguely oval-shaped, a mile or so across and nearly four miles long with a series of inlets on the western shore. To the south, the water beneath the ice dispersed into a flowage that eventually fed into the Chippewa River.
Mentally overlaying the trail system against the topography of the area, I decided that the most direct route from the Pickron house to Tomahawk Lake would have been the Birch Trail, which led along the hilly northern shore stretching away from me on either side.
On a snowmobile it
âI will.â
I reserved a room for her, and as I was slipping the keycard into my pocket, Jake emerged from the doorway. After a quick âGood morning,â he filled up a coffee cup, grabbed two donuts, and we headed for the car.
It had to be close to zero outside, and the windchill made the air feel like a wire brush scraping across my face.
âGonna be a cold one,â he said.
It already is.
âYes,â I replied.
Though the sun was still low, the day had started shockingly bright, with the early morning sunlight splintering sharply off the snow. It didnât look at all like a blizzard was on its way.
Looks can be deceiving.
I used the voice recognition on my phoneâs GPS program to ask for directions to Tomahawk Lake, and we took off.
17
Snowmobile trails paralleled us on either side of the road, just beyond the snowbanks that had been shoved onto the shoulders by the plows.
If youâve never seen a snow-covered field or forest in the North, you might imagine that the snow all looks the same, but it doesnât. Because of the various angles of the flakes reflecting the sunlight, the woods look like they have thousands of tiny diamonds winking at you as you drive by.
Although we were a little north of Wisconsinâs prime farm country, I still saw a few cement silos resting beside barns nestled on rock or concrete foundations to help the boards weather the snow.
But most prominently, I was impressed by the sight of the forests all around us, rolling dense and thick over the hills. Birch and poplar filled in the gaps between the picturesque pines, most of which were burdened with a thick layer of postcard-worthy snow. And, from growing up in this state, I knew that beyond those trees, hidden deep in those woods, were impenetrable marshes and countless isolated lakesâWisconsin has over fifteen thousand lakes, more than nine thousand of which still remain unnamed.
But the one we were going to was not.
We arrived at Tomahawk Lake and parked at the north shore boat landing.
No state troopers or sheriffâs deputies were there yet, and I was glad because it gave me the chance to look around uninterrupted.
Rather than police tape, yesterdayâs responding officers had set up wooden blockades and orange highway cones enclosing the snowmobile tracks that led to the broken ice. Considering the locale and the likelihood that this was the scene of an accident rather than a homicide, it was about all they could do.
A twelve-foot extension ladder was chained to a sign beside the boat landing. I guessed the officers or state troopers had laid on it in order to get closer to the break in the ice when they were placing the cones.
From my research last night, I knew that the lakeâs open water was caused by a series of powerful underground springs. The ribbon of water, at least a hundred meters long and a dozen meters wide, looked like a giant eel twisting along the ice, rolling over whenever the sharp wind troubled its surface.
Though we werenât far from Highway K, the snow-laden trees lining the shore softened the sound of cars and distant snowmobiles, leaving a deep silence that only a few birdsongs tapered into.
Jake avoided the ice for the moment and walked along the shoreline. I saw that he was on the phone.
I took some time to study the lake before heading onto the ice. Tomahawk Lake was vaguely oval-shaped, a mile or so across and nearly four miles long with a series of inlets on the western shore. To the south, the water beneath the ice dispersed into a flowage that eventually fed into the Chippewa River.
Mentally overlaying the trail system against the topography of the area, I decided that the most direct route from the Pickron house to Tomahawk Lake would have been the Birch Trail, which led along the hilly northern shore stretching away from me on either side.
On a snowmobile it
Similar Books
