By Aaron Ogg

On Monday I’m heading to the lovely Northwoods region in central Wisconsin on a five-day media research tour with heavy emphasis on winter activities — you know, the kind that don’t involve sitting on a couch in a warm living room watching football. 

I’m a native Michigander, so I’m no stranger to snow, but I’m averse nonetheless. It’s cold, it’s hard to walk and drive in and it makes my clothes wet. Need I say more? Oh, and it causes auto accidents, so it’s also a malicious form of precipitation.

As the father of a toddler, I forced myself outside a couple of days ago to expose my son to the elements for a prolonged period of time. We bundled him up, pulled him on a sled and threw chunks of snow (snowballs?) in his general direction. I’m told this is an important and often enjoyable experience, but I’ve yet to see actual proof.

What I do have proof of is his sizable discontent (right).

I know, buddy. I know.

Clearly I’m one of snow’s biggest critics, but I refuse to let personal bias color my journalistic integrity. Therefore, I’m diving into this wintry experience without reservation. I’m even going to buy a new hat!

In fact, I plan to do something I’ve yet to do in 30 soft, pampered years on this planet: Strap on a pair of skis.

Until now I’ve willfully avoided skiing, even with the understanding that it may preclude me from certain circles of high society. This is a sacrifice I’ve been willing to make.

Well, consider this my formal announcement to the upper echelon of the social elite. I’m ready to join you now. As soon as I repeatedly extract my face from piles of snow, that is. 

On second thought, how about I just meet you all back at the lodge for cocktails?

In all sincerity, I’m looking forward to this. If my journalism career has taught me one thing, it’s that I have no clue what I really enjoy until I actually try it.

Maybe I've been wrong about you, snow. We shall see.