One Saturday afternoon a few years ago, my daughter Taryn and I decided to try out our new Polaris Indy 500 snowmobile. There was two feet of new snow and perfect weather conditions for an enjoyable ride. She invited her friend Kelli to come along and the three of us headed out for a leisurely ride along the local trails. But as usual, nothing I ever do turns out as planned.
First we headed up Gooseberry Grade. I was riding the Polaris RMK and Kelli and Taryn were on a little 440 that was only meant for trail riding. When we encountered snow drifts that were four feet deep, I boasted to the girls that I would break trail for them and then they could follow in my tracks. Thinking I was the big shot with my new RMK with long tracks and deep lugs, I thought I could be King of the Mountain. As far as I was concerned, there was no mountain I couldn’t climb. I over-estimated my abilities. When we came to the first giant snow drift, I said to myself, “Pedal to the metal, and I’ll bust right through.”
Big mistake! The drift was too steep, and it was like riding a bucking bull in the National Finals Rodeo. I did a back flip landing face down in the snow and with no one steering the snowmobile, it continued to run, went over the next bump, made a hard left turn, and headed straight down the mountain towards a cliff. Keep in mind, I had just bought this for thousands of dollars and it had less than ten miles on it. I immediately imagined it going over the cliff and exploding into a ball of flames as if it had been hit by dynamite. What bothered me the most was not the loss of the $$$$$, but having to explain it to my wife, Sugar Plum. So I yelled at the snowmobile, “STOP!!!!!” I must have had supernatural powers because it instantly obeyed my command coming to a complete stop with the motor still running within inches of the edge of the cliff. My guardian angel must have jumped on and applied the brakes.
Kelli and Taryn, seeing this entire episode, started laughing hysterically. Taryn yelled, “Dad! That was pretty dumb! Couldn’t you see there was a big snow drift that you couldn’t get around?”
I cleared my throat giving myself time to come up with the appropriate response while my face glowed red with embarrassment. However, I was at a loss. There was no appropriate response. It was just stupidity. After walking down the hill, I turned the RMK around, drove it to the main road, and said to the girls, “Let’s go to the West fork of Morgan Creek. I’m sure the roads are safer there.”
While driving there, still suffering from my embarrassment, I said to myself, “I guess I should have gotten more practice on the RMK before I started showing off. We’ll just stick to the main roads until I get the hang of this thing.”
After a couple of miles we reached the west fork. My blood pressure had returned to normal. I decided to take the left fork which would take us to the trail head where there is a big wide turn around for a safe return ride. I wasn’t looking for any fancy stuff.
Taryn and Kelli were sticking right behind me like shadows. After all I was breaking trail and they were following in my tracks. I hit the brakes to examine foot prints crossing the road. “Taryn, Kelli, come here. Check this out!”
It was tracks from a pack of wolves. The girls got nervous, and said, “Tracker, shouldn’t we go back to the truck and get a gun for protection?”
My immediate response was, “No, they can’t keep up with these snowmobiles, and the noise should keep them away. Besides they are looking for deer or elk.
“Follow me!”
As the grade got steeper, there were multiple switchbacks as we snaked up the mountain. Gaining altitude the snow got deeper and deeper and deeper. It was pedal to the metal just to keep the sled moving. Just like water skiing, we had to keep our momentum so we could float on the powder or we would sink and be stuck. We reached a bench about two-thirds of the way up the mountain and I thought I would play it safe by making a leisurely U turn, but I slowed down too much and I got stuck instantly.
Kelli and Taryn made the U turn in my tracks and stopped right behind me. Taryn yelled, “What’s the matter, Dad? Aren’t we going all the way to the top?”
“I don’t think we can make it. The snow is over three feet as it is, and it is probably over four feet at the trail head. Let’s just go home and call it a day.”
I instructed them to give me a push while I throttled it so I could get going again. Holy Hannah! I had no idea how much horse power this machine really had when those cleats bit. I really wasn’t holding on that tight.
As the cleats bit, the front end vaulted four feet in the air. I was hanging onto the throttle with my legs out behind me dragging in the snow as the RMK took flight over the edge of the cliff. My eyes were popping out of my head; I couldn’t see where I was going as I sailed through the air like an Olympic free style ski jumper. As I caught air, I lost my grip, did a triple somersault and landed in a six foot snow drift, thirty feet down the cliff. I was gone.
Taryn and Kelli walked to the edge of the cliff and watched the snowmobile T bone a tree. They couldn’t see me. They pulled out the two way radios and started yelling, “Dad, Dad, where are you?”
I could hear them on the radio, but I couldn’t respond. It was all I could do to breathe. I was trying to swim to the top of the snow to catch my breath. It is amazing how disoriented you are when you can’t see. Because I had goggles on I felt as if I were deep sea diving. I lost track of time. Taryn and Kelli started to panic when they realized the pack of wolves was watching the entire situation. Taryn said, “Kelli, we have to go get help.”
“What about your dad? He might be dinner for those wolves.” While they were going back down the hill to the truck, I broke through the surface and gasped for air. I must have broken the Guinness Book of World Records for holding your breath.
I pulled the radio our of my pocket to tell Taryn I was OK, but there was no answer. I could hear the echo of their snowmobile over a mile away, headed back down the mountain, as if they were going back to the truck. “What’s going on?”
I needed help getting me and the snowmobile out of here, but they were running out on me.
Taryn, who was only 12, took charge. Having no experience in driving, disconnected the trailer, found the emergency key, and headed home, about 12 miles away, on icy roads in the old four wheel drive Suburban.
When they reached the house, the girls walked into the kitchen, and said to Sugar Plum, “We can’t find Dad. We think he’s dead.” Then they burst into tears.
Sugar Plum had to keep herself together for the girls’ sake. She calmly asked, “So, how did you get here?’
“We drove.”
Assuming they meant on the snowmobile, she commented, “But there isn’t enough snow on the road.”
“No, I drove the truck home,” Taryn blurted.
At this point Sugar Plum knew the situation was serious, grabbed her hat, gloves and jacket and took off with the girls in the Suburban. As they were driving, the girls tried to explain exactly what happened, but were too upset to make any sense.
At the drop off point the girls went back on the snowmobile up the mountain to try finding me. Sugar Plum started hiking the nearby trails looking for any sign of me. As it neared four o’clock, she decided to get more help, and drove to a friend’s house to call Search and Rescue. As she explained her situation to the Sheriff, Jeremy Soristo thought he might be able to help. Before joining the Army he had trained with Search and Rescue so he went back up Morgan Creek with Sugar Plum to continue the search while the Sheriff organized a search party.
I had made it back down the trail with the wolves following me. I had my trusty pocket knife with its 3 inch blade as my only weapon. The sound of the 440 was music to my ears and it scared off the wolves. The girls rounded the bend. Taryn was overjoyed to see me. She took off her helmet to speak and blurted, “We thought you were dead!”
All three of us climbed on the 440 and worked our way back to the parking spot, but the truck was gone. We didn’t know Sugar Plum had gone for help. Our only choice was to snowmobile home. About half way down Morgan Creek we ran into the Beast, our nickname for the Suburban, with a stranger behind the wheel. Sugar Plum had been too upset to drive and had enlisted the help of a neighbor. The bottom line was we got home safely, but emotionally and physically exhausted. Taryn used the incident to write an essay for a sixth grade writing contest and won the state competition with her version of “just another normal day out in the mountains with Dad.”