22 | Snowmobile VERMONT Grooming Experience the choke a few times achieved a consistent purr. I sat on the seat and held on tight. After engaging the low range lever for proper torque, I nudged the drag off the pallets. The front skis dipped into the untouched snow. I increasingly squeezed the throttle and found myself weaving around trees in a large yard. I gave Dana a thumbs- up as we both turned towards the nearby trailhead. I dreamed of a small field where I could write my name. Anyone watching would agree I was certainly dressed with purpose. A bright reflective vest highlighted my winter logging jacket. I donned insulated work gloves and a safety helmet. Yet I sensed something was missing… wait! I peered towards the dashboard only to find the beacon toggle switch. I flipped it up to activate the hazard strobe and LED light. Now I was officially large and in charge. The trek took me down a flat seasonal Class 4 road with Dana not far behind. Using the attached thumb switch I lowered the drag cautiously. My neck quickly became sore as I kept turning my head to see what I was leaving behind. It was magnificent. I didn’t care if my neck was getting sore. The trail turned into a small landowner field with a gentle downhill grade. There was a spectacular view of the snow- covered mountains. I looked left towards the house only 30 yards away. It was a chance to offer the homeowner an enthusiastic wave and gesture of thanks. But there was nobody there. Perhaps I could say thanks another day. We entered a small section of hardwood and ground brush. In a low lying area the snowpack was disrupted by some water and smooth stones. I steered slightly to the right and competed with a few branches that grazed my shoulder. I raised the drag just enough to clear the rocks and throttled forward to the trail intersection signpost just ahead. The sled was more confident than the operator; I could sense I needed much more practice. I cut the handlebars to execute a sharp left turn. At least that’s what I thought. Instead, the snowmobile went straight. I sensed that with so much weight on the rear, the skis had lift and did not assist with the turn. I tried redirecting the sled by engaging the reverse a few times. Finally I dismounted the beast and pulled the ski loops by hand. My trailmaster said nothing. I guess I was doing OK. We slowly made our way up a gradual incline. Some ice was evident underneath the snow. I raised the cutters slightly in an attempt to apply more packing. I noticed I was passing the spot where I saw all those deer last season. I wondered if they were watching me again. The route soon opened to a flat straightway. Suddenly, ugh: wheel ruts! Deeply frozen tire gouges captured the skis and I found it difficult to control the sled. It rocked me side to side and I wrestled the hand grips. Repeated attempts were made to straddle the long channel and fill it with snow using the drag. I eventually lost my balance when the sled abruptly tipped left. It partially ejected me off the side. I paused a moment to catch my breath, then flashed back twenty five years. My brother and I would ride our leaf- spring Yamahas deep into the woods in Southern New York. We explored hunting trails and deer paths, curious to see where the trek would take us. The sleds traveled over fallen trees, rocks, through small streams and up steep hills. It was hard work. Controlling the sled required “body-English.” Could it be that was a prerequisite for my challenge today? I climbed back onto the Skandic’s right footboard to upright the sled. Our grooming journey continued and led us to a stop sign at a town road. It was not a direct crossing, rather, the trail hugged the roadside for fifty yards and cut left across the road into the woods. Luckily the town plow operator dropped a wing-blade to flatten out the plow line for us. I continued along the same edge and lowered the drag for a crisp, clean finish. That’s teamwork! We crossed the road with a gradual left turn and climbed a short embankment into the woods. I lost Dana a few times. He likely made some stops to clip leaning branches. The trail entered a small clearing bordered by a detached garage. Behind it was a pile of old junk underneath a tree. Something caught my eye. I did a quick double-take. It was the hood from an old Sno Jet! What in the world was it doing there? Sno Jet was tops on my vintage bucket list. The sight reminded me of decades-old stories when clubs would use whatever they had to groom trails, like bed springs or pallets. Fancy snow smoother designs were popping up in VAST News. Better yet, every club had a member who knew someone who knew someone who could construct a steel drag. Ambitious fundraising projects occupied club meetings in the hope of buying these prized possessions. They would raffle off a cord of wood, a grill or a snow blower. A town favorite was the “Basket ‘o Cheer.” My focus returned to grooming the trail. I entered an area I somewhat feared due to the boggy soft ground, running water and bold tufts of matted grass. Yet my concerns instantly abated. Somebody had rebuilt the trail with side ditches for water control. A few snow covered water bars appeared to be bridged. The area was a fear no longer. A volunteer had been busy. A few minutes later, an arrow directed me into a secluded canopy of equally-spaced trees. I eased off the throttle and coaxed the drag back and forth around the trunks. I could reach out and touch them. The drag barely fit through a few spots, yet I groomed the route with ease. Snowmobile trails have a way of connecting you with nature. The path entered an opening amongst spines of weeds. They appeared lazy and somewhat bent. I hoped the drag would knock them down, but surprisingly they resisted. We would have to come back later to shave the trail clean. It certainly wasn’t a big corridor trail. Still it deserved perfection just the same. Luckily, a few long strands of prickers were out of reach. They are the enemy of every snowmobile jacket. We exited the woods and turned into a section of plowed road. I cut the handlebar sharply to the left with the intent of riding the roadside and re-entering a field on the opposite side. Again the sled went straight towards the opposite snow bank. This time I tried something different. With a light squeeze of the throttle I repeatedly popped the brake lever. The Skandic repeatedly bucked forward and the skis began to grab the thin layer of snow underneath. The sled redirected and I was on my way. More importantly, I was getting better.