The Sauna Bed and the Stolen Licorice

There are many ways to enjoy a weekend of snowmobiling in Iron River, but I chose the one that involved getting hopelessly lost, nearly overheating, and discovering that the best adventures come with a side of chaos.

We rolled into town buzzing with excitement, surrounded by towering pines dusted in freshly fallen snow. Our headquarters was Rusk’s Lodging—a quaint lakeside B&B nestled on McCarry Lake, part of the Pike Chain of Lakes. The trails, it turned out, were just steps from the door, which felt like a good omen as we hauled our gear inside.

Arriving at Rusk’s: Hospitality with a Heat Wave

Unloading the snowmobiles was still a blur of snow crunching underfoot and the cold bite of early winter, but then Donna—yes, the Donna—popped onto a friend’s sled with an exuberant shout:

“I haven’t driven one of these in 20 years!”

Before we could process, she peeled off down the snowy road, leaving behind a roiling cloud of white and a mix of disbelief and admiration.

“Should we stop her?”

“Should we follow her?”

“Did she just out-sled us all?”

That was our unofficial welcome, a wild spark signaling the weekend ahead.

Inside the B&B, the heat from a roaring wood stove wrapped around us like a warm hug—sometimes a little too tight. One poor soul caught the bed nearest the stove and became an unwitting victim of what we dubbed “slow-roasting at 2 a.m.”

Meanwhile, laughter bounced off the walls along with tales and the peculiar vanishing of an entire package of red licorice.

Saturday’s Snow: When the Gods Deliver

Morning light revealed a blanket of 16 inches of fresh snow, the kind that makes every sled feel like it’s gliding on clouds. Trails groomed to silken smoothness beckoned under the muffled hush of falling flakes.

Donna and her husband set a breakfast table fit for the hardiest lumberjack: fluffy pancakes stacked high, eggs, savory sausage, and what felt like the contents of an entire kitchen.

Between bites, they spun stories about moose with mischief in their eyes and snowstorms with personalities of their own.

Pumped and maybe a little overconfident, we hit the trails toward Cornucopia on Lake Superior. Maps were out, Ride Command loaded on tablets, sleds revving, and communicators buzzing in at least two helmets. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, as is tradition with our crew, we managed to get lost around Port Wing. Twice. Maybe three times. At that point, it became difficult to keep track, since every fork in the trail looked like a perfect snow-globe scene.

Our unplanned detour led us to the Valhalla Recreation Area—a name that conjures visions of mythical afterlives. The trails there were pristine, and a stop at Valhalla View Pub & Grub delivered a lunch fit to make even Odin jealous: hearty, warm, and just what we needed.

GPS? More Like Guess Position System

Our ride leaders came prepared with GPS devices and Ride Command apps, gadgets theoretically built for unfailing navigation. In reality, those routes felt more like suggestions.

Trails twisted and forked unpredictably. Several times, we found ourselves riding a loop that led exactly back to the starting point.

“Maybe the GPS is in denial,” someone joked.

“It’s definitely the moon’s fault,” another chimed in.

The truth? Getting lost was its own reward. Every wrong turn brought fresh scenery and belly laughs that no perfect route could have purchased.

The Lake Race: Silence Meets Speed

Then came the wide-open frozen expanse of a lake, the kind of silent blank canvas screaming for a bit of controlled chaos.

Before caution could settle in, throttles snapped open and engines roared. We were flying—snow kicking up in sparkling plumes behind us—as we raced toward the distant timberline at what felt like 100 miles an hour.

Wind whipped frost to my cheeks, adrenaline hammered in my chest, and the world narrowed to strips of white and blue sky. For a few fleeting moments, time paused.

Who won? That depends on who you ask. Suffice to say, George claimed the crown and the glory.

Where We Ate, Laughed, and Lost an AirTag

Friday night’s warm-up was a quick ride to The Other Place Bar. Inside, the drinks were cold, locals cheered from their stools, and the jukebox made sure no silence lasted longer than a song.

Saturday night, we cranked it up a notch at Buskey Bay Resort. Between Old Fashioneds and generous plates brimming with Wisconsin comfort food, laughter echoed across the lake. And somewhere between dessert and the dance floor, we lost an AirTag.

If anyone’s found one pinging “Find My Sledder,” we’d love to have it back.

Sunday: The Saddest Ride Home

Sunday came far too soon. We squeezed in one last spin to savor the snow’s magic before hesitantly loading the sleds for the ride home.

Donna sent us off with one last story and a knowing wink, as if she’d been in on every misadventure—and had planned them all.

Some trips stick because of the place.

This one stuck for the people, the endless laughter, and the unmistakable scent of slightly singed thermals.

“I haven’t driven one of these in 20 years!” Donna declared triumphantly as she grabbed sled #4, forever the hero of the moment.