Snowmobiling

On Thursday of last week I went snowmobiling up in the mountains near Cascade, ID. I had a great time in spite of nearly killing myself. The last time I clambered up on a snowmobile was about 14 years ago in Lafayette, IN. I rode with great distinction and adroitness, priding myself on my skillful handling of the 240 cc machine (yes, for you snowmobiling addicts out there, 240 cc)...in a cornfield. I quickly learned Thursday morning that my perceived competence was severely overrated in the mountains of Idaho. I had upgraded to a 600 cc snow machine, capable of climbing great heights and achieving glory, depending upon its rider. Now, you have to understand that we weren't trekking across a particularly dangerous section of terrain. In fact, John Mullins, who so kindly and patiently guided me through the day, commented gaily about how easy of a ride this was. Yeah right! Not for a rookie.

We started across some groomed trails and about a mile or two up the road found a meadow to play around in. The other member of our party was Marc Taylor and as we got to the meadow he tore off across the field. I had been trying to feel out the machine, and having already succeeded in burying it in a snowbank while attempting to climb a rather steep incline, knew that I had everything under control. I didn't.

As I raced after Marc, my depth perception failed to kick in, so I totally missed the fact that there was a large dip ahead of me. I didn't slow down a bit and I hit that dip full force. The snowmobile went up into the air and came down forcefully before I ever had an idea that something was wrong. Fortunately I was wearing a helmet because my face made impact with the windshield, causing my ears to ring. I don't quite remember how it happened, but I found myself in the snow, short of breath, looking woozily at the snowmobile.

After that, I took it easy. Nothing major going on here. We climbed Packer John, a mountain of about 7,000 feet, taking an ungroomed trail up to the summit. I'll have a few pictures in a day or so. When we got up to the top, the sight was worth the trip. It was awesome!

We spent the rest of the day, traversing the mountain. There was one more scary moment for me. I've always heard the expression "I tasted fear" used, but always pegged it as an exaggerated statement. I am hear to tell you that it is not exaggerated, that I tasted fear Thursday.

As we had made our way up the mountain, we had gone over a tree that had fallen across the path. The tree was mostly covered with snow, but there were a few branches sticking up, so I took my time crossing it. Well, on the way down, I'm trying to take it easy, to not push anything. I'm doing 25 or 30 mph as we followed the curvy trail down the mountainside. I came around a corner and saw a short straightaway, so I opened it up and took off. I was thinking that the downed tree was across another section of the trail. It wasn't. It was on this straightaway that I was racing down. On my left was a drop-off of about 600 feet and the only way to make it across the tree was to go to the left. I didn't have time to slow down and hit that tree going way too fast. The snowmobile leaped up into the air, sparks flying, and all I could do was jerk my weight to the right of the machine. It was one of those moments when time stands still, when everything goes into slow motion. The snowmobile landed sideways on the trail, none the worse for wear, and I continued on my way. However, I tasted fear. It was a bitter taste in my mouth that stayed for a couple of miles down the trail. My heart rate increased dramatically.

It was definitely an exciting day for me. It was a learning experience. I got stuck probably 5 or 6 times before lunch. By the afternoon, though, I learned how to shift my weight around and managed to stay out of trouble. It was great!

It scared me to death, but I'll do it again. You gotta keep pushing those comfort zones.