There’s nothing worse than the realization that you have lost something, especially if it’s expensive, has sentimental value or is vital to your well-being. It’s immediately painful, the eyes bulge, followed by a loss of breath, and a twitch as you comprehend that your “thing” is missing.
Hands rifle empty pockets, you run from room to room screaming, “has anybody seen my blah-blah-blah?” In return, you get blah-looking stares from those witnessing your little piston meltdown.
There is no lost and found in the woods. There is no snowmobile lost and found box. If something goes missing on the trail, it’s bye-bye forever. Such was the case after an all-day ride into the dark. We started early and 150 miles later caught a distant glimpse of glowing light from our hotel. I was whipped. My feet were chilled and an annoying chunk of ice had built-up under my right foot, which refused to be kicked free at 35+ MPH.
We loaded the sleds on the trailer and soon everyone changed from the bulk of snow-wear to the comfort of jeans and snowmobile-themed T-shirts. We had dinner, then headed to our room for a relaxing malt beverage before hitting the rack. I reached into my right pocket and got that sickly twitch. My trusty Leatherman super-duper tool with deluxe bottle opener was gone. I’ve had that knife for over 15 years, it’s been everywhere I’ve been. We’ve seen the world together. (It’s a guy thing.) What would I do without the incredible 17 built-in tools, the ones that saved my hide numerous times, especially the screwdrivers, pliers and those itty-bitty scissors?
Ah, this was just a game of hide-and-seek, it must be in the right-side pocket of my snowmobile bibs. Nope. Maybe the jacket? Nope. Trunk bag? Nope. Before I could run through the hotel screaming, I remembered flipping the Phillips screwdriver from the precision handle at a pit stop during the last hour of our ride. A headlight had gone out and Mr. Leatherman saved the day, yet again. I recalled putting it down on the seat as we snacked on trail grub. What I couldn’t recall, was putting it away. It was dusk, the conversation was distracting, and my fanny musta knocked it from the saddle to the bottom of the fluff.
It was tough to swallow; not the IPA, because I couldn’t get it open, but the reality that my dear knife was gone forever. I tried to make myself feel better with the belief that some fortunate trail-worker might be rewarded next fall when the sparkle of that $100 stainless steel wonder catches their eye. As miserable as it is to lose something, finding a lost treasure could make a day of brush cutting memorable.
Morning popped and we dragged our bags and ugly butts to the truck, then crawled into the trailer to tie the sleds down. That annoying chunk of ice in the running board was still there, except it wasn’t annoying anymore. It was my Leatherman, stuck in a groove of the running board! To think I had repeatedly tried to kick it free. That knife was single digits cold, painful to hold, but the burning sensation of it sliding to the bottom of my jeans pocket felt so good.
Unfortunately we had a mechanical meltdown about an hour down the road that not even the mighty pocket tool could fix. Those with mastodon memories may recall the time both axles of our trailer grenaded in the Adirondacks of NY. This was that day. If you adore mechanical gore, that story lives on at sledmass.com.
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