Hammers

  "That's not a god damn hammer at the end of your arm! It's a tool, but it's not a hammer. You know where they are. Go get the right one."  Of course I did, Grandpa had them all in a row on his tool cart, arranged smallest to biggest. Each one for a specific purpose, each one clean and ready for the next job.

  I honestly don't remember what I was beating on with my fist, but I do remember the lesson. I can tell you exactly where it was. I can tell you I was wearing jeans with red stains from the last weekend, I was helping Grandpa stain the split rail fence. I still had stains on my hands. I can see "my hammer" hitting whatever we were working on, red stained fingers and a few streaks running towards the elbow. I can see Grandma's gold "Scamp" in the next garage.  I can picture the hammers. Vividly. All in a row on his tool cart. He was right, I knew exactly where they were, and thanks to previous lessons I knew which one I needed. Then, I have no memory so I'm assuming I did the right thing.

 Today I decided to tackle a project that I've been putting off. I found myself in need of a particular type/style/length of a pry bar. Not necessarily about the "project" in and of itself, just enjoying a much needed day off, and working on some things I need to catch up on. Mechanical things. Travel to all the local chain parts stores, no dice. Younger guys don't even know what I'm talking about, but the older ones do. The true "car guys" know what I'm after, but unfortunately the response is always "they don' make them anymore." Local non-chain store guy suggests a store about 20 miles away. Hell, I'm killing time, up for a ride.....

 Fast forward to me wandering around a sheep store looking for a goat. One of the workers asks me, can I help you find anything? Pry bars.

 "Oh! They're over by the hammers, follow me!" So of course I follow, somehow doubting that they won't have what I'm looking for. Well, hello! There's the 24 inch pry bar I need, in a kit with smaller ones, for 20 bucks! My eyes drift to the set of ball peen hammers sitting right beside what I need. 5 hammers that I do not need.

 I check out, do my thing, and overcome a few minor obstacles on my project. Some things I wasn't planning on encountering, but those are for future Billy. It's all good. Project is done, with a few more trips to auto parts store. Then I open the package containing my new hammers.

 My new hammers are just that. New. As I'm putting them on the peg board, I find myself thinking of Grandpa's hammers.

 Each one has a story to tell. Hickory handles stained with experience. Red paint faded away with every hit, on every project, they left a little of themselves on what they were working on. My handles are made of yellow fiberglass. Not the wood like Grandpa had.

 Not greasy black handles, stained handles. The kind of stain that only comes from years of calloused greasy hands carefully cleaning each tool as it's put away. Dark stains in the recesses of grandpa's fingerprints, dark stains in the recesses of the hickory hammer handles. A mutual respect between a man and his tools. You have callouses because you've used me correctly. The surface grime gets washed away. The soul of the tool stains it for life, Not a stain that comes in a can. A stain that can only come from a man and his tools.

 I was unfortunate that my Grandpa died when I was young. I find myself thinking about him a lot. I was fortunate that I got to spend so much time with him, I didn't think so at the time. But, I remind myself that there is a guy in between. A guy that has taught me things without even realizing he was teaching. Hell, he thinks so much of me that he even kind of wrote a book with me as the main character.

I'm gonna leave you with this.
Traveling Wilbury's

 I know what the tools on the end of my arms are for now.

 Hammer down Francis!

The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald VI

 Yeah, I  completely dropped the ball on this story. It was so bad, that I didn't want to relive it in my mind to type the story. But, that being said, I've been asked by many to finish this story. I actually had to read my own writings up until this point to remind myself.

 So at this point in the trip, I have already broken down, and pretty much all of us are fighting heat. Ironic at best, fighting heat on snowmobiles, but as said before SNOWmobiles need snow, and we didn't have any. Saw more than any 12 guys should in a lifetime on the trip up, but now when we need it, slush and blacktop.

Coming through the woods like a lighthouse for a sinking ship, we hear this:

The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald

Tired of hearing that song? Yeah, we were too. But it was Danny's personal theme song when he walked in. So, Danny walking through the woods, music playing and I don't remember exactly what he said, but I'm sure it was something lighthearted and whimsical like "That FU@K|NG RXL quit again! She's a god damn whore! But she's also a classic!"

Unlike the rest of us, Danny wasn't overheating, he was fighting electrical gremlins. Quick "fix" with some medical tape from my first aid kit, and we were good to go. At this point there was a "stench" of something not being right, but again we didn't listen. 10 of 12 sleds have already had issues, and we were only 4 miles from the cabin. 3 miles of sparks from steel on blacktop, and 1 mile of slush, and 2 more miles to good snow.

The only sleds that were happy at this point were the "little air cooled 340s". Now keep in mind, the mentality of this group. If 500cc is good, 600 is better, and 700 or 800 is a quicker way to death in a snow pile. So, we're all riding "hot rods" except those 340s that we all kind of made fun of, but in the dark recesses of our 2-stroke fueled madness still respected. The were small engines, true. But they were also reliable. Not only the "little" engines, but the entire sled. They didn't have 100+ HP of terror under the hood trying to destroy the sled and rip aluminum apart on the way to they're own self destruction. They were just good reliable slow sleds.

At this point, us on the hot rods were thankful for a little down time to cool off the monsters. Those on the 340s were thankful to catch up. Wolfpack mentality, we kept the 340s in the middle of the group to keep them in the group. All back together, all running and ready to ride. Where's Sally?

Being the lead dog isn't a responsibility I take lightly. As we ride the trails, our group stretches out a bit, much like the cheese on a hot piece of pizza pulled from the box. At the intersections of trails, I wait and make sure the wolfpack is still intact, so everyone knows which directions we're heading, then off we go. So we come to the first intersection on the way to Newberry. Remember Newberry? That's all we wanted to accomplish today, Newberry for the shake down cruise and back. So we come to the first intersection, and I stop and wait for the rest of the pizza cheese to join into the pack. Much like the lead dog, the guys in back are just as important. They need to keep an eye ahead, and make sure those in front of them are OK. If someone breaks down, they stop to help.

So here I sit at the first intersection on the way to Newberry with 9 sleds behind me, I'm expecting 11. Eddie and Pat are AWOL. Normally I leave the sled running, and helmet and gear on up to a certain time. Waiting..... sled gets shut off, off comes the helmet. All the others felt the same. Helmets off, sleds off. Believe it or not, this is one of my favorite parts about snowmobiling. Being out in the woods, quiet. You can literally hear the snow falling. Although this time we were standing in slush, and listening to what we thought was rain. So, no bad things expected but I can't get away from the "stench" of something bad. I smell like 2-Stroke and woods, and we're all perfectly OK with that. A distant sound of a few thousand CC's of Polaris in the distance, Pat and Eddie will be here soon. All is right with the world. 1 mile to good snow, 22 miles to Newberry. It's all coming together, Struggled to get ready, struggled to get here, struggled for the first 3 miles of the trip. But I hear Pat and Eddie coming, it's all good.

There's Eddie on the 800! Pat? Paaaaat......

Pat comes ripping up the trail like his throttle is stuck wide open. The sled dies while it's still moving, and before it stops moving Pat is off of it with the hood open. Evidently there was a pile of snow alongside the trail that REALLY wanted to be steam. Remember, newer sleds have radiators that are under the seat. At this point Pat is shoveling snow onto his screaming hot engine. Seriously? It's 22 miles to Newberry. We're not launching a rocket, just trying to ride 22 more miles.

"This thing is hotter than a $10 pistol!" Well, shit. Then I notice it. Instead of all the beauty of the wilderness, I notice all the steam coming off of 9 of the 11 sleds behind me. The 340s were "cool." Well......

well shit.

22 miles to Newberry on the shake down cruise. Long haul to Whitefish Point planned in 2 days.

I hear Danny. "Hey, Grandpa! What are we gonna do here?" And of course he has his theme music playing as he walks up.

"...coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.."

Gimme a minute Danny Boy. We got this. I'm hot, Chop is "ok" but hot. Eddie walks up and says "Not as hot as Pat, but the 800 isn't happy."

"...Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the ruins of her ice water mansions..." at this point on Danny's theme music.

At that exact moment, we should have turned away and gone home. Fought the entire way to get 3 miles from camp. Broken almost everything we own. No snow. Call it a day gang, go home.

We didn't listen.

At that moment, I thought to myself....

"Fu@k off Edmund. I'll see you at Whitefish Point in 2 days."

I had planned the rest of our trip in my mind, without asking the others. I made it personal with the Edmund Fitzgerald. I was going to see it through.