My path to work each morning takes me through woods and meadows in the care of my town's Natural Resources Trust. On mornings after heavy snows, such as the one we had this past weekend, the place is a paradise of silence, pristine whiteness, crisp clarity.
Or, rather, it should be. Unfortunately the snowmobilers spoil all that. They unload their machines from pickup trucks, drive them blatantly past signs that read "Snowmobiles prohibited," and proceed to churn up trails and meadows in a jag of noise and fumes.
Perhaps someone can explain to me why people who are enamored of internal combustion in natural places so often believe that the rules do not apply to them.