As I skied off, I looked back at the Beast who seemed to be sitting quite happily and contently in the middle of the trail.įor a while, I skied through the darkness, frustrated, completely unaware of my surroundings, vaguely following the track by feel. I banged the Beast’s engine cover shut, mumbled a few choice words, and pulled out my skis - which, like the shovel, I carried for such a contingency and which, as you have probably deduced, had been needed on several previous occasions. No matter how much I cranked the starter and fiddled with the carburetor, the Beast wasn’t going anyplace.īy now it was completely dark.

When it did, I’d have to dig it out with a small shovel that I carried for that very purpose, knock the skids loose, and push against its 800-pound frame with all of my 150 pounds to get it moving and back on the trail.įinally, way out on the course near a steep drop we called Suicide Hill, the Beast sputtered to a final and complete stop.

It would suddenly stop for no reason and it had a maddening habit of burrowing itself deeply into the snow. Time after time, the Beast had lived up to its reputation. I had named the machine “the Beast” for its cranky disposition.

I had been out manhandling an old, used Swedish snowmobile, dragging a homemade wooden track setter for the next day’s race. Every so often the heavens give you a reminder - and it can happen at the oddest times.įor me one of those reminders came while grooming a course for a cross country ski race.

Winter dusk sky