The moon was half full and the snowy spring woods reflected enough light to perform minor surgery, if needed.
In another month, with a good base of snow—yes, there will still be plenty of snow, according to the Camp Shack witch doctor—it will still be the perfect night for the twice-monthly National Union of Friendly Americans (NUFA) “Ride for Mirth, Merriment and Absolution” on snow sleds that aren’t too old and aren’t too new and may be just right as long as the spark plugs don’t foul and the windshields don’t fall off, nor do the riders before they can cleanse themselves of bad habits.
On that recent night during the changing of the seasons, I imagined the perfect stillness broken by sputtering sleds as we wound our way down the snowy railroad grade where millions of board feet of pine logs once passed. Except for deer hunters and a few loggers pulling pulp, the country had largely been forgotten over the years, and the hint of roads had been kept at arm’s length due to raucous topography and a general emptiness of landscape. A few shacks and fewer wayward moose were all that remained.
Oh, there were a couple of deer left after this winter in the tough country that leans toward Lake Superior, and some scrawny wolves and ravens, too. The Exalted Shack Master still harbors delusions of grandeur as this crazy world spins ever outward, but he is content to march around with head held high in his Napoleonic sphere of influence. He and Vladimir Putin are pen pals.
All that was left at the shack was another bunch of tortured people ready for a snow sled ride in search of their souls in a world gone crazy with the plunder and spoils of a wayward society.   
Yes, no matter that April is nearing: twice a month we are determined to leave the Shack Reclamation Center and its soothing tones and head out into the wilderness to make sure the beast of greed and avarice would thus be tamed. The shack boys always feel that the best way to deal with the folly of Wall Street, Washington, and world calamity is to go out for a nice ride in the snow with the saints and sinners, to negotiate their way through the trees with eyes closed and hopes up, to levitate above the financial doom and gloom and re-emerge on the other side, a nation and a people reborn.
We will do the snow dance for ample snow so as not to delay the rides at all.
Please do not blame us if we get another 50 inches of snow. Don’t blame, come join us.
We all feel a good trail ride could repair the nation, if only we were allowed to lead the way on our old sleds on narrow trails that grip the landscape like a pair of good old shoes.
Moral turpitude can only be saved when the damned are brought to bear on a trail filled with the tracks of deer and wolf. There is a profound and blinding simplicity, free of greed and avarice, when the animals move through the country chasing and avoiding each other in a matter of absolute survival.
One of the first damned souls to take the ride with us several years ago was a corporate raider who sold his children into slavery because the interest rates were killing him. He came across a wolf track nearly the size of his hand and wondered aloud why the animal would simply depart a trail littered with the tracks of deer, a convenient trail, only to plunge into snow that was as deep as its belly. The deer eventually did the same thing, simply wandering along the packed trail, only to disappear into the deep snow and uncertainty.
He was born again, found his moral compass, when it dawned on him that the animals, unlike most men, aren’t deterred by the convenience of trails. They are moved by the larger whims of the world—the wind, the scents, the barometric pressure, the season—to simply move in a direction, a destination that never ends until they are a mere pile of bones on the forest floor. The trail is but a pleasant diversion, a chance to stretch the legs, in the lifelong song of being alive in the symphony of the natural world.       
The simplicity startled him. In his three-piece Carhartt coveralls, Corinthian leather choppers, and mink fur hat, with an old 1972 Ski-Doo at his side, he immediately understood the galaxy of emotions collapsing within him and then being flung outward again.
“I’ve been a putz,” he said, hanging his head.
Ring up another one for the Camp Shack Reclamation Center.
Since then, thousands have been saved.
If you’re feeling a bit empty, a bit disoriented with the way things are and what you believe, join NUFA’s “Rides for Mirth, Merriment and Absolution” every other Saturday through snow season.
That means sometime in May, folks—plenty of time to join us.
You’ll know right where the trail starts and what time to be there.