Winter appeals to our better instincts. Our tinkerers, our thinkers, our idiots. Winter makes them all crack their knuckles, pull on some goggles and set forth loudly into blizzards of invention. And those inventions? They’re glorious. Tank-treaded propeller-driven suicide sleds lubricated by sweat and blood and skittering across the icy world on runners of made of pure frozen gall.
It’s a glorious thing, the snow machine. Today, made efficient and practical, they’re very real transportation. Fantasies made real. And the failures that preceded them? We’re all made a little better for their invention, and a little safer by their failures.
