SNOWMOBILE QUEEN OF THE ROCKIES
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Now, I may have exaggerated just a tad with the title, but that's just me. When a friend of mine invited me snowmobiling near his Breckenridge home I couldn't resist. I'd been snowmobiling just once before, for about ten minutes, sitting behind someone who believed in keeping his speed moderate--maybe about 20-30 mph. That was in Alaska about 25 years ago or so.
My friend assured me this would be a docile, scenic ride. There would be two others with us, a couple from Florida. That sounded like fun and with all the snow we've had I knew it would be beautiful, so I accepted the invitation.
Al The Web Guy made the trip to the mountains with us but has snowmobiled many times before and didn't want to leave our dog Coco-Puff, so they just wandered around the mountains a little while we zoomed off into the wilderness. And when I say "zoomed," I mean ZOOMED.
It was a weekday and we saw very few other snowmobilers. My host had a trailer full of snowmobiles, helmets, gloves, clothes and everything else you can imagine.
What I didn't know was he apparently has the need for speed and an apparent death-wish. I was in the #2 position behind him with the wife and husband in that order after me. He took off like a shot and right away I had trouble keeping up. Within the first 20 minutes I was barreling along so fast it was hard for me to take my eyes off the trail and look at my speedometer, but I managed to do so. 65mph! What was my host thinking and what was I thinking trying to keep up? I later discovered he rides at speeds up to 120 mph, so from his perspective I guess we were just poking along.
I was afraid I'd lose him, though, as the trails branched off and he was not always in sight, and tried valiantly to keep up. At one point the trail became extremely steep and I went out of control and right over the side of the mountain. The snow was very deep off the trail and I stopped fairly quickly, but it took about half an hour to dig me out. I had tried to brake but my gloves were just big enough to keep my grip from being firm enough. I later pulled them up high on my wrist for better control, which helped a little.
One by one, we each had our moments, catching someone else's ski and usually throwing both riders off but each time, our host helped us up, then took off again leaving us far behind.
Surprisingly, out in the middle of what seemed like nowhere, we came upon a lodge where our host sprang for hot chocolate and hot dogs. I declined the hot dog as Al and I had stopped on the way up for a big breakfast. I couldn't resist looking at the prices, though. Six dollars for a hot dog! Frankly (Get it? Frank-ly?) that's just too much for a hot dog. Or maybe the hot dog was really just $1 and the fries 50 cents apiece. Hard to say.
So we refreshed ourselves, pleaded again with our host to slow down, which he didn't, and the three of us proceeded to be flung all over the mountain some more. I had to be pulled out over and over again. My last incident was the worst when I went over a steep cliff and wound up buried, along with my trusty steed in deep snow.
Our host and the other gentleman with us were successful in digging me out along with the snowmobile, but the incident held us up and our two hour ride turned into a six hour ride. Al was on the verge of calling Search & Rescue, which wasn't a bad idea by that time.
However, we emerged safe and sound if a little banged up. Our host invited me snowmobiling again this week for another scenic tour but I politely declined. I'm still healing from the last round and not yet quite ready to be splattered all over the Rocky Mountains again.
To see some photos taken during the ride, the following link will take you to the Last Uploads in our Colorado Wildlife album: Snowmobiling
Part One of Chapter Two of my sequel to The World At My Feet is now available for viewing. You'll find it here in the Table of Contents . Table Of Contents
Now, I may have exaggerated just a tad with the title, but that's just me. When a friend of mine invited me snowmobiling near his Breckenridge home I couldn't resist. I'd been snowmobiling just once before, for about ten minutes, sitting behind someone who believed in keeping his speed moderate--maybe about 20-30 mph. That was in Alaska about 25 years ago or so.
My friend assured me this would be a docile, scenic ride. There would be two others with us, a couple from Florida. That sounded like fun and with all the snow we've had I knew it would be beautiful, so I accepted the invitation.
Al The Web Guy made the trip to the mountains with us but has snowmobiled many times before and didn't want to leave our dog Coco-Puff, so they just wandered around the mountains a little while we zoomed off into the wilderness. And when I say "zoomed," I mean ZOOMED.
It was a weekday and we saw very few other snowmobilers. My host had a trailer full of snowmobiles, helmets, gloves, clothes and everything else you can imagine.
What I didn't know was he apparently has the need for speed and an apparent death-wish. I was in the #2 position behind him with the wife and husband in that order after me. He took off like a shot and right away I had trouble keeping up. Within the first 20 minutes I was barreling along so fast it was hard for me to take my eyes off the trail and look at my speedometer, but I managed to do so. 65mph! What was my host thinking and what was I thinking trying to keep up? I later discovered he rides at speeds up to 120 mph, so from his perspective I guess we were just poking along.
I was afraid I'd lose him, though, as the trails branched off and he was not always in sight, and tried valiantly to keep up. At one point the trail became extremely steep and I went out of control and right over the side of the mountain. The snow was very deep off the trail and I stopped fairly quickly, but it took about half an hour to dig me out. I had tried to brake but my gloves were just big enough to keep my grip from being firm enough. I later pulled them up high on my wrist for better control, which helped a little.
One by one, we each had our moments, catching someone else's ski and usually throwing both riders off but each time, our host helped us up, then took off again leaving us far behind.
Surprisingly, out in the middle of what seemed like nowhere, we came upon a lodge where our host sprang for hot chocolate and hot dogs. I declined the hot dog as Al and I had stopped on the way up for a big breakfast. I couldn't resist looking at the prices, though. Six dollars for a hot dog! Frankly (Get it? Frank-ly?) that's just too much for a hot dog. Or maybe the hot dog was really just $1 and the fries 50 cents apiece. Hard to say.
So we refreshed ourselves, pleaded again with our host to slow down, which he didn't, and the three of us proceeded to be flung all over the mountain some more. I had to be pulled out over and over again. My last incident was the worst when I went over a steep cliff and wound up buried, along with my trusty steed in deep snow.
Our host and the other gentleman with us were successful in digging me out along with the snowmobile, but the incident held us up and our two hour ride turned into a six hour ride. Al was on the verge of calling Search & Rescue, which wasn't a bad idea by that time.
However, we emerged safe and sound if a little banged up. Our host invited me snowmobiling again this week for another scenic tour but I politely declined. I'm still healing from the last round and not yet quite ready to be splattered all over the Rocky Mountains again.
To see some photos taken during the ride, the following link will take you to the Last Uploads in our Colorado Wildlife album: Snowmobiling
Part One of Chapter Two of my sequel to The World At My Feet is now available for viewing. You'll find it here in the Table of Contents . Table Of Contents
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