groomed paths

I was thinking about trying to climb down the embankment and get to the frozen river when my foot started breaking through the solid surface of the snow and plunging at least two feet down, and it seemed unwise to try to attempt to get through the thicket and pass through an acre of snow that came up to my thigh. That's what snow shoes are for. At that moment a gust came up and spun me like a lover, throwing my ridiculous hat to the ground and dropping my other shoe, so I ran away from the elements until after breakfast, and then kept to the groomed trails at Mt. Abrams, as the signs on the chair lift suggested. Abram sounds like a version of Abraham designed by people with a taste for speed.

The next day we passed by frozen lakes supporting these ice fishing huts. Inside you'd probably find the hole the fishermen thread their bated hooks through, and perhaps a heater of some kind. I was fascinated and my sister urged me to go out and talk to the men and see if I could have a look around, but it seemed daunting enough to go out on the ice even if some people clearly felt comfortable driving their trailers out there, even plowing a road out to their ice shelter. Not that I was really scared the ice would break, I was just feeling a little reluctant to descend on the contented sportsmen.