View From the Bushes

Every year between Christmas and New Year's Day, my family heads north to go snowmobiling. Since that vacation is fast approaching, I thought it might be appropriate to share one of the many, many snowmobiling stories I have. It took place four years ago on a massive mountain rising thousands of feet from the floor of the valley below, that the locals called merely, "Competition Hill." I had climbed it several times before, but this year was different -- this year was suppossed to be easier, and it was precisely because of that that it happened.

I started up the hill, confident in my ability to climb it... too confident. Rather than flying up it with all the speed I could handle, I putted up it at the very lowest speed necessary to maintain my forward momentum (which actually was still pretty fast). One of the tricky things about Competition Hill is that it gets really steep right at the top, but that was okay; I had enough speed to get over the top, but not an ounce more, so when I lost the track I was following, I had to let off the gas a bit and turn. It was only for a split second and I immediately floored it but too late. And so it was that five feet from the top I lost control of the snowmobile and it started to roll back down the hill.

As it rolled, the hood popped open, the windshield was torn off, and a trail of snowmobile parts like a comet's tail littered the mountain. And then, when it had caused as much damage as it could through rolling, it righted itself, pointing downhill. The belt whined as it picked up speed. I briefly stopped my string of profanity to entertain the hope that it might actually miss all of the trees, as it went past grove after grove. But displaying evil uncommon in something not made by Microsoft, after having gained as much speed as possible it slammed into the very last tree on the hill, wrapping its skis around the trunk and finally coming to rest.

Carpe Diem Quam Minimum Credula Postero
Ross