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It is the beginning of the season the locals refer to as “winter” here in Perth. And yet the coldest day I have so far experienced could quite easily beat out an overcast mid-summer day back in Toronto — if you had to decide which one was a better day. The swimming pool in the back of our complex, although heated, has been full of water but empty of humans for a week now. Outside on the Esplanade, less people are going for walks, and those who do wear long pants and sweaters. People roll up the windows while driving. The beach is vacant, except for the occasional early morning fisherman casting a line in the surf. What is it with fisherman anyway? The world over they cheerfully go out in any weather to try to catch fish. The same Western Australians I overhear complaining about the cold would no doubt find it incredible that Canadian fisherman walk to the centre of a frozen lake, sit in a wooden hut for hours on end, fish in a hole cut through the ice, and wait for a bite. They joke about it: “Any bites, Stan?” “Only frostbite, Lou.” “Catch anything Jean-Claude?” “Just a cold, Henri.” You get the picture. The laughter never ceases in these little ice-fishing huts. You can hear it in the wee small hours echoing across the frozen lake country, like the cry of a loon. I was asked by a friend if I wanted to accompany him ice-fishing. I said no. I am not much of a winter person, which may be why I love the Australian climate so much. I tried ice-skating a few times in my youth, and found that I could get going well enough, but every time I tried to stop I would wind up in the emergency room of the nearest hospital. So, unlike many rosy-cheeked Canadian lads, I never played ice-hockey at all. I once paid a fair bit of money to rent skis and buy a lift ticket to try downhill- skiing. As soon as I reached the top of the mountain, I thought better of the idea, and unfastened my skis, walked back down the slopes to sit by the fireplace, and drink whisky. [B B] I tried crosscountry skiing but only got as far as Mississauga, Ontario. And what can I say about tobogganing? Sure, its fun, but it’s as dangerous as hell. Just stating that toboggans are not equipped with air-bags should sum it up, I think. Going down a steep icy hill full of pine trees on a narrow piece of wood or sheet metal at speeds exceeding thirty kilometers an hour—with only a woolen toque to protect your braincase—and a piece of rope to steer, is just as extreme a sport as base jumping, if you think about it. The possibility of serious injury and/or death is staggeringly high, yet parents in northern climates purchase these death machines for their children to play with! Why not just give them the car keys and tell them to go play on the highway? My brother-in-law has two (!) snowmobiles. A snowmobile is more or less like a motorcycle on skis. He and my sister apparently enjoy going out into the bitter cold on sleds and bombing around through fields and forests. Every year there are reports of snowmobile enthusiasts decapitated by wires strung tightly across unmarked trails. The wires are invisible to the sledders traveling at speed, or glare from the snow reflecting on the visor, or possibly because they are pissed to the gills. Whether or not these lethal wires are placed by landowners to mark property boundaries, or deliberately fastened by homicidal whackos intent on causing carnage, is anybody’s guess. Every winter, come snowmobile season, you can count on it: Heads will roll. Continued On Next Page (their, Page 2) ... AUTHOR: Tom Nicholson  TAGS: Travel world planet time BOOKMARK: Digg it | Add to Del.ICIO | Add to FARK ACTIONS: Comment Save Print Register free acount 
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