The line at the pump took forever.
“Everyone’s getting ready for the storm,” Sean said, one eye on the cloud-blanketed sky. Flakes swirled around us.
Finally, after we paid for the gas, I asked Sean if he minded if I drove the sled.
“You still remember how to handle one of these things?”
“Let’s find out.”
As I took my seat I reviewed where everything on the snowmobile was located: the choke, the kill switch, the brake, the throttle.
Dad’s instructions from my childhood came to me, words still clear after all these years: When you’re going down a hill, just let the sled do all the work… Stay right in traffic like you would on your bike and watch for warning signs for bridges, road crossings, driveways… Remember, you can’t back up on a sled and they have a wide turning radius, so don’t miss your turn or you’re gonna have to get off, grab the back end, and swing it around. It’s a pain and it’s a telltale sign you’re new at this.
Amber’s helmet was a little small and held her fragrance so I was glad it wasn’t a long ride to the sawmill. Sean took a seat behind me. I slipped on the gloves I’d worn last night on my short walk beneath the stars, pulled the choke, revved the engine, and took off.
Sean had an older model Yamaha whose speedometer only went to 90 mph, but I anticipated that he’d pushed it up a lot higher. On this ride I had no intention of running it out all the way, but it might be fun to take it to the limit later if I had some free time.
Regardless of the snow whipping around me, rainbowed splinters of light shone in the plexiglass shield of the helmet, and it made the day seem bright and hopeful. For a moment I forgot why I was here in northern Wisconsin, why I was on this snowmobile in the first place.
But then I remembered.
Death.
Encountering the real.
25 mph.
Even at this moderate speed I could feel the wind rushing in the edges of the faceplate and through the small adjustable slits designed to let air in by the rider’s mouth. I squeezed the throttle.
As we passed 35, there wasn’t much of a difference in the feel of the machine, but as I accelerated to 40 a tight vibration began riding through the sled, especially as I swung around the curves on the trail.
45 mph.
Speed called to me.
Edging past 50, the ride remained pretty much the same, but then the trail straightened out, and once I hit 60 I could tell we were really starting to move. The sled’s tracks skidded to the side whenever we hit a patch of packed snow, and the sled felt like it was ready to whip out from under me if I tried to make the slightest turn.
70 mph.
We raced past a field populated with half a dozen white tail deer, and in the moment that they caught my attention, the snowmobile began to fishtail; I let up on the throttle, took us down to 50, and as we neared a sharp descent, dropped us to 35.
With the noise of the engine, even though Sean was sitting right behind me, it was impossible to talk to each other, so now he patted my arm and pointed to the right. I took us across Highway K and then cruised to a stop at the entrance to the Pine Shadow Sawmill.