A Snowmobiler's Story
By Odyll Santos

Still need a taste of speed? Then get on a snowmobile and zoom up to secluded Irwin Lodge and back.

So in keeping with the theme of living life to the fullest, I decided to do something I had never done before: snowmobiling. Ski-crazed individuals say that's too easy. Still, no one can deny that a snowmobile can give you a taste of speed in the powdery snow, the kind of high that many visitors here seem to look for.

II was no passenger on this ride. Never thought of being one, except for those few minutes when I first confronted the thing I was supposed to drive. It was huge and intimidating. Hardly an appropriate match for someone short and small, I thought. I had fallen off bicycles in clear, sunny weather and was now staring at the next vehicle I could fall out of. Meanwhile, the guide was a tall South African who could drive standing and was accustomed to the snows of the Rockies.

Having signed up as a driver, I quickly banished my doubts, even as snow started to fall and the afternoon cold numbed my fingers and toes. Our group, six riders plus the guide, was headed up to Irwin Lodge, a haven for those who crave true seclusion. At 10,700 feet above sea level, it was accessible only by snowmobile or snowcat. My mission: to make it up there and back in one piece, without freezing in below-zero temperatures, all within the three hours budgeted for the excursion.

I was determined to keep up with the expert guide. Seated on the roaring hunk of metal, I pressed on the right handle and burst forward fallowing the guide. It was like a motorcycle on skis, but not on the smoothest of roads. Those trails had their bumps, and occasionally, we met other snowmobile drivers heading back down. I did fine for the first leg of the trip, when the trails were mostly straigh.

Then came the next leg, when the trail twisted and turned. Maneuvering around these bends was a challenge. I speeded off after the guide, turned to follow the winding trail, and promptly flew off it and ploughed into a snowbank! The rest of the riders drove by in wonder. I was stuck in nearly two feet of snow! I pressed on the right handle, trying to make my ride move, but failed. The snowmobile roared forward a few inches, bumped into a bush, then sank deeper into the snow. So much for my aggressive driving.

There was a lesson to be learned from all that. When you get off the trail, just stop, don't move," the guide said. Then he proceeded to dig me out, telling me that had I driven a few feet farther, I would have ended up in a creek and in big trouble. We patted down the few feet of soft powder imprisoning the snowmobile, my leg sinking, the snow reaching just above my knee. Did this normally happen? I asked. Yes, he said. Often? Well . . . Finally he pulled the thing out of the snow and back onto the trail. We continued upward to Irwin Lodge without incident, but this time I brought up the rear.

Reaching the lodge was a relief. We gathered by the central fireplace with cups of soothing hot chocolate. The rustic 21-room lodge boasted no phones. In this nearly 30-year-old establishment, guests simply escaped, exploring the mountains on skis or snowmobiles. But for us riders, this was just a 20-minute break. We were going back.

It was a somewhat less eventful ride, but drivers turned speedsters on the way home, going so fast that we lost sight of each other. With a long distance between me and the driver ahead, I stopped once wondering whether I had lost the group and realized how still everything was around me, solitude in a blinding white road. Follow the trail was what I had to keep in mind. I rejoined the group soon. The guide had gone backward on the trail to make sure I was coming.

There was a bit of a romp on the way down, what the guide liked to call "structured playtime." In an open area of snow, we drove around as if we were racers in a mini Indy 500. And it was then that I thought I'd finally gotten the hang of the thing I was driving. I could turn with much more control, leaning my entire body toward the direction I was headed. Not bad, I thought.

Playtime ended soon, and we headed back to base in even greater speed, finally lining up our snowmobiles to park them with the rest of the pack. We tipped the guide, waved good-bye and boarded the bus that took us back to Club Med.

Strangely, no one could remember the name of the guide, the views of the mountain forest, or the actual distance we drove. Was it 20 kilometers in total? Was it miles? By that time it didn't matter. I drove the snowmobile, and I didn't fall off. I had experienced Rocky Mountain speed in some of the coldest conditions and was headed back to civilization.

The spirit of adventure got me at Crested Butte, as it did many others. I didn't have those powder dreams everyone else seemed to have, but amid all the talk of powder and how great it was, I finally tasted it in the trails of the Rockies.

It was a little scary, but ultimately exhilarating. While I may not yet have lived life to the fullest, at least I've started.

Other Great Links:
Club Med Crested Butte, Colorado Rockies
A Snowmobiler's Story