We piled into Iron River ready to conquer trails, and our home base for the next two days was Rusk’s Lodging — a lakeside B&B run by family friends who clearly know how to host more than just crank the heat.  If you’ve never stayed at Rusk’s Lodging in Iron River, Wisconsin, imagine a bed-and-breakfast where the hospitality is off the charts, the breakfast could feed a small army, and the wood stove believes it’s auditioning for a sauna commercial.  The place is on McCarry Lake, part of the Pike Chain of Lakes, and yes … the trails start right out the door.

After unloading the snowmobiles, we were still basking in the “fresh weekend away” glow when Donna(yes, the Donna), owner-operator extraordinaire, hopped on the sled of one of our pals and shouted, “I haven’t driven one of these in 20 years!”before peeling off down the road in a cloud of snow. I’m pretty sure we all had the same thought:

“Should we stop her?”
“Should we follow her?”
“Did she just out-sled us?”

That was our welcome party. Right there. We knew it was going to be a great weekend.

Inside, the B&B radiated warmth—literally. The wood stove blazed like it had a personal vendetta against winter. The friend who drew the short straw (and the bed closest to the fire) experienced what can only be described as “slow roasting at 2 a.m.” But the storytelling, laughter, and mysterious disappearance of an entire package of red licorice made up for any temperature-related suffering, and we were officially in vacation mode.

Saturday dawned with 16 inches of fresh snow awaiting us - yes, that fluffy white goodness that makes your sled feel like it’s on cloud-cruise mode.  Trails had been groomed overnight to silky smoothness, so the ride conditions were chef’s kiss perfect.
Donna and her husband outdid themselves with a breakfast spread that could make a lumberjack weep—pancakes, eggs, sausage, and possibly the kitchen sink.  Between bites, they regaled us with more stories about local legends, mischievous moose, and snowstorms that apparently “had personalities.”
Fueled and fearless, we planned a full on run toward Cornucopia on Lake Superior, map in hand, Ride Command on the tablets, sleds revving, communicators on (at least for 2 of us). Easy, right? But as is tradition in our crew we managed to get lost around Port Wing. Twice.Maybe three times. It’s hard to count when every intersection looks like a snow-globe postcard.
Luckily, our accidental detour landed us at the magical refuge of the Valhalla Recreation Area, which sounds like a mythical Nordic afterlife—and honestly, it was close. The trails were flawless, and Valhalla View Pub & Grub served up a lunch that could make even Odin jealous.

Our ride leaders were equipped with GPS tablets and Ride Command, which theoretically means we should have been unstoppable. In practice, we still got lost on nearly every trail we touched. Trails snaked, forks appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly the “route” became “adventure with optional navigation.”
At one point, we were following a route that looked suspiciously familiar, only to realize we’d looped ourselves right back to where we’d started. Someone suggested the GPS was “in denial.” Someone else blamed the moon.
But honestly, getting lost was half the fun—because every detour came with new views, fresh tracks, and more laughs than any perfectly planned route could ever provide.

And then came the moment.
‍A wide-open frozen lake.A clear stretch ahead. The kind of silence that begs for chaos.Before anyone could say“this seems like a bad idea,” throttles opened, engines roared, and we were flying across the lake at 100 miles an hour, racing each other toward the far shore. The snow dusted up behind us in glittering clouds, and for those few seconds, the world was nothing but wind, adrenaline, and unfiltered joy.
Who won? Depends on who you ask. (George did. Obviously.)

Friday night, we kicked things off with a short ride to The Other Place Bar, where the drinks were cold, the locals were friendly, and the jukebox had opinions.  Hard-earned après-sled treats and the kind of laughter that only comes when you’ve earned it.
Saturday night, we leveled up to Buskey Bay Resort, a proper Wisconsin supper club experience complete with Old Fashioneds, hearty plates, and laughter echoing across the lake. Somewhere between the dessert and the dance floor, we lost an AirTag.
So if anyone finds one pinging “Find My Sledder,” please send it our way.

Sunday came too soon. We squeezed in a short ride—just enough to feel that snow-kick magic one last time—then reluctantly loaded the sleds, said our goodbyes, and promised to come back before the tracks melted.time—then reluctantly loaded the sleds, said our goodbyes, and promised to come back before the tracks melted.  
Memories locked in.
Rusk’s Lodging waved us off with one last story and a wink from Donna.
Some trips stick because of the destination.
This one stuck because of the people, the laughter, and the smell of slightly singed thermals.

Two days, a B&B that felt like a warm hug (and occasional blast furnace), groomed trails, lost navigation, high-speed lake crossings, licorice theft, and a whole lot of laughter.
If you ever need a weekend away where “luxury” means “heated wood stove which may become unexpected sauna,” and “navigation” means “we’ll find it (probably),” go to Iron River. Stay at Rusk’s.
Ride hard.
Laugh harder.
“I haven’t driven one of these in 20 years!” —Donna, the hero of the moment on sled #4.