UPSTREAM IDAHO
A VIEW FROM THE HEADWATERS OF THE NORTH FORK OF THE SNAKE RIVER
I WILL NEVER DO THAT ON A SNOW MACHINE—AGAIN
“THE WHITEOUT”
Funny, how when people are on vacation they feel bulletproof and think that they are immune to the hazards around them. They often do things they wouldn't even dream of doing back home. It is as if they forget to pack their brains. You may be able to relate to some of the things that I have done with and without my brains while riding snow machines for over two decades in Island Park.
The first time I crashed a snow machine was while riding with with my brother in-law, Wes. New to snow machine riding, we had traveled a few times on the marked and groomed snow machine trails and felt that it was time for us to go out for an off-trail ride. The open range from the west shore of the Island Park Reservoir to Kilgore beckoned. In our minds this range was an open playground without hazards. Wrong. Somewhere west of Centennial Shores, the falling snow, wind and freezing fog coated our goggles and reduced our visibility to a few yards or less. We were introduced to Ice House Creek as we went off an unexpected 20 foot drop. Funny what you have time to think of as you realize that you are soaring off into the great unknown. My thoughts that morning were that I was flying in a whiteout without FAA clearance, without a VFR horizon and without an instrument rating. Deep snow cushioned our descent and the landing was abrupt but not violent. Our forward inertia slowed and we throttled up to climb out of what we concluded later to be a small valley.
Our climb came to an abrupt end when we met Ice House Creek again on the other side. Wes was the only witness to my violent and sudden stop. Airborne for a second time that day, I flew over the snow machine and landed upside down and backwards in the deep, soft snow. When Wes determined that I was only stupid and not injured, he became Mr. Funny Pants, totally useless and falling down in the snow, consumed with laughter and unable to come to help for at least five minutes. We augured our way back to the snow machine where we discovered that the skis were folded straight up. If the snow machine had human anatomy, I would have suspected a dislocated, compound fracture.
Wes had been farming most of his life and chose to help by adding some novel cow language that simply cannot be printed here. We dug out for two hours and finally after the third attempt got out of the valley and determined that the bent skis were fine and that the snow machine was intact. We carefully rode back across the reservoir and then on to Bills Island. Like all brave men who have survived similar adventures, we forged an oath not to tell our wives about what had happened. Hot chocolate never tasted so good and we were happy just to be home by the fireplace, hugging our Teddy Bears. As I snuggled off to sleep that night I made a mental note to self; NEVER GO OFF TRAIL IN A WHITEOUT—AGAIN.
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