Sno-Go Frustration

Watching Thane and his buddy Mike ride their Skidoo snowmobiles is like watching expert ballroom dancers sweep across the floor. They dance across the snow, swooping up and down hills, carving across steep slopes with an ease that belies the fact that they are in total control of 500-pound machines with 160 horses under the cowling. There is a joy to their movements that can only come with hundreds, thousands of hours of practice.

I, on the other hand, was an exercise in frustration in motion. As we climbed from the Richardson Highway up toward Gulkana and College Glaciers and The Hoodoos, we followed College Creek for a bit and then climbed higher by following a series of draws. (I'm not positive of our exact route, but that puts you in the general area across the highway from Fielding Lake.) I would like to say that I was riding our 600 Skidoo, but in reality, it took me for a ride.

Growing up, my family always had snowmachines, although I never rode much. Thane and I very

Rowan riding our first Skidoo, very proud that she was learning to ride standing up.

proudly bought our first sno-go (as they're called in bush Alaska), a 1993 Skidoo Tundra II, as a transportation necessity when we were living in Kaltag out on the Yukon River. We put hundreds of miles riding two-up on that poor machine, but it got us where we needed to go, not to mention hauled many cords of firewood and several caribou and moose. It was a workhorse, and it rode like one.

Back then, and back when I was a kid, most machines were utilitarian. You sat on the seat and steered with the handlebars, not unlike driving a car. You went in the direction you pointed the skis. Not so with modern machines. Sure, you can still buy workhorses, but Thane and his friends really ride very expensive toys. You don't drive these machines, you ride them.  

I've somehow only manage to ride about once a year for the past several years, and last winter not at all. I've also managed to hurt myself a few times during those infrequent rides. Needless to say, my confidence and skills are not what they should be. All I really wanted to do this weekend was be able to sit down and drive my snowmachine down the trail to get where we were going. I didn't have the energy for or interest in playing. Too bad for me.

Fielding Lake public use cabin

The Miller family and our bunks in the cabin.

Saturday dawned bright and clear in interior Alaska, with high temperatures in the mid-20s. There was ample light, fluffy snow to ride and play in. We'd spent the night at the Fielding Lake State Recreation Site public use cabin just across the highway from where we went riding. Friends from North Pole joined us for the weekend.

I was looking forward to a fun day with family and friends, but I was a little nervous, too. I hadn't been riding in a very long time, and I knew my shoulder was no where close to full strength yet. All I wanted was a day of easy riding in the sunshine.

Riding up College Creek was great fun. Plowing through the powder blew up billows of snow around us, and we could ride fast with no impediments. Our only limitation was that Rowan's Tundra topped out at about 20 mph. 

Thane and Rowan with their machines. You can see the results of 20 years of technological advances.

Before long we turned off the river and starting climbing through the hills. Now this was not technical riding by any means, but it did require active riding. You really just can't sit and drive our modern sleds. Steering comes primarily through leaning your weight from side to side and countersteering with the skis. Countersteering? Yep. I had to get a little mini lesson from Thane at one point. The idea is that you want to lean your weight to the side of the machine that faces the direction you want to turn (lean into the turn), but steer the skis in the opposite direction. This maneuver allows the snowmobile to carve a turn, much like you would on downhill skis. Intellectually, I understood the concept. I was even able to make it work a time or three. I could not, however, seem to get my brain and my body to work consistently together. Riding standing up isn't a problem, and I can usually lean my weight to the right side, but I just couldn't seem to make myself steer in the opposite direction. Every time I think about it, I'd freeze up.

As a result of my ineptitude, I fought my machine all morning. It was an unending exercise in frustration. I felt like I was totally out of control of my sled, and I couldn't relax enough to just let it find a path through the terrain and come back to the direction I needed to go. At one point I was literally sobbing with frustration. It didn't help that my blood sugar had dropped, too, never a good thing for my attitude or abilities.

Eventually we worked our way out of the draws up to about 5,200 feet and were able to travel over more open terrain. I also ate a few mini candy bars and Oreos. Riding was easier, my energy and attitude were better, and I was able to relax enough to have fun and enjoy the scenery. Snowmobiling is not my passion, as it is for Thane, but I do enjoy being able to get out to areas I'd otherwise never be able to see. We ended up miles off the highway, back in the mountains where the annual Arctic Man ski/snowmobile race is held. The area would be impassible in the summer, and to ski or snowshoe back there would have taken me days, especially if there were no snowmobile tracks to follow.

By the time we got back to the cabin, I could concede that I'd had fun and it had been a great day. Boy howdy, I need to ride more in the future though. I don't want to risk reliving that morning.

 

Fathers and Daughters

 

Note: I used several terms to refer to the machines we were riding. Here's a little primer:

• snowmobile - what the rest of the world calls them
• snowmachine - what they're called in Alaska (anywhere else, a snowmachine makes artificial snow)
• sno-go - what they're called in Alaskan bush villages; the prevelance of Skidoo brand sno-gos often leads people to call all sno-goes Skidoos
• sled - another generic term