The arrival of spring means different things to different people. Some think gardens. Some think hikes. Some think mud.

And me? I think … “Boy-oh-boy, I sure hope I can get my ice shack back to dry land without swimming, sinking, paddling, falling, or herniating anything I might need in the future.”

This year – Year Two in my life as a bonafide Ice Shack Owner – I’m glad to report that spring has gone great. No swimming. No herniating. Not even much cussing.

Of course, the fact that all the lakes are still covered with ice probably has something to do with my … our … relative success.

But mostly, I credit the fact that my 4-by-6 personal togue-a-torium is officially high and dry to two things: Stupid luck. And a man named Whip.

Whip, of course, isn’t his real name. That’s just what we decided to call him after he bought a spiffy used snowsled with that name boldly emblazoned on the front by a previous owner. … OK. Actually, it says “Whio” … but we think it’s supposed to say “Whip.”

Besides all those positive attributes I already carefully mentioned (just so he’ll know he’s appreciated the next time I’m looking for a couple helpful hands) Whip has a few more qualities that make him nice to have around.

First, he can build things and tie knots that don’t come apart when the wind starts blowing (that’s especially cool when you’re towing what amounts to a four-hole outhouse around town on a tiny trailer).

Second, he’s as even-tempered as they come. Even if you wake him up early, keep him from working on his new house for an entire day, and drop an ice shack on his toe (we did). Mark this down, and remember it: Whip doesn’t get mad. Ever.

And third … he owns an ATV. With chains. And he’s always looking for something to pull around with his primitive three-wheeled steed. This year, it was a trailer, which Whip figured would work perfectly: All we had to do was put the shack on the trailer, tow it off the lake, and hitch the trailer to my truck. Presto. Shack-to-go.

Eventually, that’s how it worked. Eventually.

Now that I’ve said a lot of good things about my friend Whip, I’ll also point out one not-so-good thing: Put him in control of anything with an engine and a throttle, and he gets a little aggressive.

So there we were, Whip driving the ATV and another buddy and I acting as human ballast on the trailer ride out to the shack I call “Save The Bait.”

Whip wasted no time catching our attention.

We should have jumped when he burned rubber leaving the parking lot. Or when he hightailed it down the steep incline of the access ramp.

Whip did turn around to check on us (and to see what we were swearing about). Once. And he nearly swerved into the ditch.

At that point, we decided to shut up and ride.

We did OK, until Whip hit the last frost heave … at 25 mph. Ballast-buddy and I both went airborne. I found out that we primates do in fact still have tails. Or at least tailbones. Ballast-buddy groaned something about ribs.

Five seconds after that, things got worse. We broke through the top layer of ice (there was another, thicker one only 10 inches below) and bogged down for a bit.

But other than that? Piece of cake.

And Whip’s plan? Perfect. He hauled the shack off the ice. Ballast-buddy and I walked a half-mile back to the landing. Puffing. Panting. Rubbing our ribs … and tails.

By the time we got back, Whip was ready to go, grinning like crazy. And it dawned on me.

I said Whip doesn’t get mad. But I never said anything about getting even.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net