The Northern Lights Snowmobile Club invited the Leader to explore some of its trails in Barrhead County. Here is an Englishman’s take on his first snowmobiling experience.
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Saturday, January 12, 2013: an important date in my Canadianization process.
Since I was going snowmobiling I broke a lifetime’s habit and arose early.
Full of excitement and even more trepidation, I immediately began questioning the wisdom of accepting the Northern Lights Snowmobile Club’s invitation to experience their trails.
I mean, the English are born for croquet and cricket, not for sporty activities on snow. The idea of me on a machine in the wintry wilds was preposterous.
Anxiouslly, I checked emails and voicemails for a last-minute cancellation. But no, everything was go for the big day.
I was to meet the Northern Lights’ vice-president Gary Belanger at 12:30 p.m. at the Co-op Gas Bar and follow his vehicle and trailer to president Al Breitkreitz’s house. We would then go to Shoal Lake.
Wimping out was no longer an option.
So what should I wear? I tried picturing the terrain; all I saw was Arctic tundra or mountainous wooded trails far from civilization.
I donned two shirts, two pairs of socks, long johns, jeans and a winter coat. It felt inadequate, so I slung extra clothing and winter boots into a bag, along with a box of crackers, oranges and a bottle of water.
If I was going to perish today, it wouldn’t be from starvation, thirst or cold.
At the Co-op I bought a sub, barbecue chips and more water and lingered at the rendezvous.
When Gary, his son, Jonathan, and Dave Sawatzky arrived I gave my overworked nerves a rest.
We set off, a bolt of excitement going through me. Finally I would be able to experience what I had been writing about.
I followed Gary to Breitkreitz’s home – about 15 minutes out of town – where we met Cindy and Murray Kammerer. Our group was now complete.
While sleds were unloaded, I was kitted out with extra gear: snow suit, gloves, boots that swallowed half my legs, a balaclava and a gold-coloured helmet reminiscent of the one Jack Nicholson wore in Easy Rider. A beauty, Jack would have called it.
Impressively bulked up like the Michelin Man, I was introduced to the machine. The Polaris Widetrack, the club’s groomer sled/work horse, eyed me sceptically. Painted a gleaming black, with blue flashes and a dash of red, it seemed too sleek and grand for a novice.
Presumably that’s how it felt. For when I practised basic manoeuvres in Breitkreitz’s driveway, it proved less than cooperative. Only by going in an enormously wide arc through overhanging foliage, my sinews and muscles stretched to the max, could I get it to turn.
It didn’t help that I straddled the Polaris initially as a motorbike, planting my feet on the ground for extra balance and propulsion.
“You may wish sometimes to stand up and lean,” I was told.
Standing? I had visions of myself toppling into the snow, the Polaris trampling me like a demented elephant and declaring: “I knew you were useless. What an insult for a rider.”
The thought pursued me briefly as we rode out of the driveway, across the road and into an open field. Then it disappeared into icy air.
My adventure proper had begun and I became strangely delirious. Here I was in the great white outdoors, wind on my pasty cheeks, actually sledding … I was completing a required rite of passage for any newcomer to Canada.
Completing it, I should confess, at a very cautious pace, my left hand forever hovering over the brake. I had heard going slowly makes control more difficult, but fear of crashing trumped everything. Slowmobiling suited me fine.
I had a tale to tell my folks and I was determined not to mess up the ending.
Fortunately my back was always covered by the Kammerers, who took it in turns to bring up the rear; a job demanding endless patience, but their good humour never deserted them.
Go at whatever pace makes you comfortable, was the advice I received.
I was immensely grateful for it, grateful too for the thumbs-up signs exchanged whenever there was a pause in the ride to allow the group to reassemble. It encouraged a sense of unity, that we were all looking out for each other.
The trails are identified by red poles. Resolutely I tried to coax the Polaris to follow them, hoping it would slip into well-worn sledding grooves. Unfortunately, it repeatedly insisted on veering off into deeper snow.
Once I got stuck and Murray had to turn the skis around by hand. Mostly I corrected myself by activating long dormant muscles. Slowly – very slowly – I began to acquire a feel for my Polaris, thanks to each little discovery or tidbit of advice: it wouldn’t roll over if I leaned, it would support me if I stood, I shouldn’t ride the brake, applying extra gas does improve control, even at a standstill I don’t have to change to neutral …
Learning about the grip warmer was huge, for it helped revive my numb, useless fingers.
A bigger challenge was Tired Thumb Syndrome. Pushing the accelerator became increasingly arduous, a disheartening problem when you see fellow sledders zooming into the distance. Why can’t I be like speedy Sawatzky or galloping Gary, I moaned privately.
“Try using your palm,” was Gary’s suggestion.
It proved effective, but it meant my main excuse for ineptitude had fallen away. Others would have to be invented.
We had now reached Shoal Lake and an icy wilderness stretched before me in its solemn glory. What does it look like in summer? I pictured a glassy expanse of water, disturbed only by fishermen.
Supposing, just supposing, there was now a crack in the smooth textures. Perhaps among those slightly furrowed lines.
The ice is thick, but unfortunate headlines about a novice snowmobiler formed in my mind as I motored across, glued to the sledder ahead, watching his progress.
Maybe Polaris had grown bored by my presence, for it forgot to misbehave, allowing me to admire the stark beauty all around. There is such a wonderful sensation of privilege in being in the middle of frozen water; a privilege conferred by nature. I felt partly an intruder, partly an honoured guest.
Families contemplating a snowmobiling trip, should consider Shoal Lake. It’s a ride that appeals to sledders of any age or experience and the views exalt the spirit.
Just beyond the lake is Shoal Lake Cabin, the stopping-off point where sledders eat, drink and are determinedly merry.
Fun is what it’s all about,” said Northern Lights trail coordinator Dale Bentz, who was in the cabin with Perry Pickrell and Steve Zunti when we arrived.
It’s a serious point about snowmobiling. Socializing, spending quality time with families and friends, is a big part of the attraction.
The cabin is small, homey and dominated by a woodstove. I toasted my sub, while Gary cooked sausage for everyone and Cindy handed out beef jerky. On a nearby table were sauerkraut, pita bread and condiments.
Aligned against the walls are green, straight-backed chairs that once furnished the Roxy Theatre. By the door is a splendid looking rocking chair.
I was told it was the president’s chair, the reserve of Al Breitkreitz or special guests.
“You can sit there,” I was told.
Me a special guest? It seemed implausible. Gingerly I sat down, wondering whether this was a non-members ritual. Perhaps the seat would give way or squeak.
But no … my wariness was misplaced. Yet again.
This was a day when anxiety, phobias and fears were largely concoctions of the mind, grounded on ignorance and inexperience. As Dale Bentz said, snowmobiling is about fun, fun and more fun.
Otherwise, what is the point?
When Gary reminded me I had to be back in Barrhead to cover ice hockey, I felt a pang of disappointment. What? Already?
My dismay, however, vanished once I remounted the Polaris for the 17 kilometre return journey.
In its place was a feeling of familiarity. Suddenly I was a shade more comfortable. I could even step on the gas … just a bit.
Could it be the Polaris wanted to be my friend?
