Journey from hell
(Lou, Yukon)
Driving a snowmachine, it’s hard to know what’s happening to the rider following you. Two-stroke engines whine at ear-splitting pitch and your head’s muffled in fur, ear defenders, goggles, hood. You wrench your neck round, keeping your thumb on the throttle, and snatch a glimpse of their headlight to be sure they’re still there. Often you only see the back of your hood.
So it’s a sign of how bad things got that I could hear Neil screaming Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! from 20 yards behind me.
Yesterday goes down as one of our worst journeys. Another one.
For the past week we’d been riding an emotional rollercoaster on our broken-down snowmachine. We must have involved everyone in a 100 mile radius in the saga.
Both our Alaskan friend and a pal in town had the spare part we needed. They got those parts to the Rangers who were headed to us, breaking trail for the Yukon Quest dogsled race.
Four Rangers arrived with our Polaris parts, beer, fresh eggs and bacon which made for a very welcome overnight with us. The poor bastards looked like someone had put them in a box and shaken them. It’s 40 miles to Dawson (see footnote). They had trail for the first 24 miles of that, and they are big, experienced guys on big machines but it took them almost seven hours.
The next day we hitched a ride with them to our Polaris and discovered the parts didn’t fit. We watched the Rangers heading off upriver thinking, now what?
Then the cavalry arrived. Our wonderful Alaskan friend pulled his old Skandic machine on a sled 20 miles across the jumble ice to us, plus a gift of buns and rye bread from his partner.
With the trail so rough, the visit took him all day. We compensated as well as we could with chocolate.
Mobile again, we soon set off for Dawson City to collect the machine we had arranged to buy from a pal. Weather wasn’t ideal with 37 below forecast. Snow. Wind. Really not ideal. We packed emergency equipment and cold weather gear including my sexy goose-down clown pants.
And we made this. We’re calling it “The Jumble Rider.”
Carrying a pillion is tough when manoeuvring over rough ice. Our Alaskan friend gave us this design and, incredibly, we managed not to fuck it up.
The night before we were edgy. Cold is OK. Cold and wind is not nice. Cold, wind and the terrible visibility that comes with snow is lethal. Would we even see the trail that the Rangers had fought for seven hours to put in?
We had to meet our pal at 3pm and so set off at 8am to allow for a full range of fuck ups. It was dark, obviously, cold- 30 below, but the wind had shifted to the north and was behind us. And best of all, it stopped snowing. The sky cleared and we could see the trail. Northern Lights still flitted above us. Perfect.
We made town in three and a half hours with only one minor mishap.
Neil fell off the Jumble Rider and got his foot caught in a ratchet strap. I was meant to keep checking over rough patches but somehow didn’t spot him and carried on driving, dragging him face down in the snow behind the sled.
What a fuss he made! Honestly, we were in a rush to get to town. I couldn’t keep stopping every five minutes, could I?
That evening we sat with yet another amazing friend stuffing hot stew, drinking fine wine and happily absorbing the kindness that comes at us from just about every direction. She had not only offered to put us up, but also done most of our shopping.
We’d collected our new machine from another extremely generous pal. It’s a Polaris of similar 90’s vintage to our broken-down one, but smaller. We’re calling it Piccolo Polaris. He made time out of a hectic schedule to get it to town, replace a shock absorber and checked it all over for us. I’m not even convinced he wanted to sell the thing in the first place. It’s small and light and just perfect for me. And red. Brilliant.
Things took a different turn the next day. We left well before dawn, anxious to get back for our dog. It was warm, 23 below, but snowing lightly and visibility was terrible.
The snow had drifted over the trail. A few miles out of town, we could see nothing. A dim grey oozed into the sky. Our headlights were now of no use and the flat light made travel even harder.
Snowmachines pack the snow into a hard trail as they travel. This “sets up” into a highway that everything here uses (machines, dog mushers, wolves, moose, rabbits, everything).
When you can’t see that trail, and you have deep, soft snow to either side, you will continually plunge off it. Hopefully, you keep going. The machine swims from side to side as you lose the ability to steer in the powder snow. If you don’t hit a block of ice or a rock and you have enough speed, you might be able to spot the trail again and swing back on to it. If not, you come to a halt with the machine tipped to one side.
The wind had packed the top six inches of snow into concrete. Every time I get a ski off the trail, I would veer off, one ski would punch through the hardened top layer and the pressure against the spindle would bring me to a halt.
One of us would try to find the trail again underfoot by stumbling around hoping to hit hard pack.
Then we’d dig the snow out in front of the machine and round the track and skis, and push, trying to get up enough speed to get back to the trail.
Neil was towing a heavy sled that dragged him off on side hills. We had to unhook the sled, not easy as the tow hook was often locked tight by the awkward angle. Then we’d dig out and push the Skandic on to the trail.
Next we’d tie a rope from the Skandic to the sled and haul it out of the hole (the machine now being able to get traction on the hard pack).
Next we untie the rope, reverse back, and heave the heavy sled on to the hitch by hand.
All this with the machines at chest height as we were waist deep in snow.
I then set off again out front on Piccolo trying to find the trail, only to plunge off it and get stuck 20 yards later. Then the above seven paragraphs repeat themselves. For hours and hours.
Some of the drifts across our path were four feet high. I would get up as much speed as I could and try to crest them, then drop with a slam on to the other side.
I got no good photos of these drifts. The light was too awful and I’d just fucking had enough by then. If I didn’t have the speed, Piccolo stopped at a near vertical angle. We’d both push it up and over. Then do the same for Neil’s Skandic if that couldn’t make it.
We’d turn off the machines to save gas whilst we got unstuck. These old two-strokes have no electric start so getting going again, each time, means pulling on that heavy pull cord. They got cold as we worked so we had to pull again, and again, and again, maybe a hundred times in. Waist deep in snow.
We started to worry that we would not get home before dark and would be unable to see any landmarks or trail stakes.
Seven hours. 40 miles. Two hours to do just one particularly bad mile.
Still, isn’t it nice to get home to a nice warm cabin and lovely cup of tea?
Our cabin froze down whilst we were away. Everything froze, even our pickles which leaked and oozed vinegar over the shelf. We don’t leave water except for a couple of thermos flasks to feed the dog. If you leave water in a bucket or a kettle it freezes at the top first then, as the rest freezes, it busts out the bottom of the container. So our first job is to get a fire going and then go down to the creek to haul up buckets of water from the waterhole.
Homer was the only thing that wasn’t frozen, thank God. He was delighted to see us and delighted to have a super-duper big feed and a fun walk to the creek.
He was delighted when we left him in the pen 32 hours previously because he got a giant triple breakfast, some moose bones and a rabbit’s head. Cool!
I had always imagined our dog was named after the Simpsons character but I’m beginning to wonder if he wasn’t named for the ancient Greek poet. He takes a philosophical view of the intervening 32 hours alone in the pen and we are taking a lesson from Homer.
We’re sore today but we had a beautiful journey to town, met some wonderful people and got a great little snowmachine, a red one. With only seven hours of hell. Cool!
Footnote. We finally nailed the distance as 39 miles on the tachometer. We’d thought it was 50, but then someone told us it was 60 and then we realised they meant km, not miles. So I’m blaming the French with their funny ideas about decimalisation.
Driving a snowmachine, it’s hard to know what’s happening to the rider following you. Two-stroke engines whine at ear-splitting pitch and your head’s muffled in fur, ear defenders, goggles, hood. You wrench your neck round, keeping your thumb on the throttle, and snatch a glimpse of their headlight to be sure they’re still there. Often you only see the back of your hood.
So it’s a sign of how bad things got that I could hear Neil screaming Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! from 20 yards behind me.
Yesterday goes down as one of our worst journeys. Another one.
For the past week we’d been riding an emotional rollercoaster on our broken-down snowmachine. We must have involved everyone in a 100 mile radius in the saga.
 |
| Homer helping with diagnostics from between Neil's legs |
 |
| Preparing for the arrival of guests. |
The next day we hitched a ride with them to our Polaris and discovered the parts didn’t fit. We watched the Rangers heading off upriver thinking, now what?
Then the cavalry arrived. Our wonderful Alaskan friend pulled his old Skandic machine on a sled 20 miles across the jumble ice to us, plus a gift of buns and rye bread from his partner.
With the trail so rough, the visit took him all day. We compensated as well as we could with chocolate.
 |
| Filling the Skandic with gas |
 |
| Clown pants and woolly vest. It's weird but sometimes people seem to avoid us in town. |
 |
| Jumble Rider strapped to back of our sled |
The night before we were edgy. Cold is OK. Cold and wind is not nice. Cold, wind and the terrible visibility that comes with snow is lethal. Would we even see the trail that the Rangers had fought for seven hours to put in?
We had to meet our pal at 3pm and so set off at 8am to allow for a full range of fuck ups. It was dark, obviously, cold- 30 below, but the wind had shifted to the north and was behind us. And best of all, it stopped snowing. The sky cleared and we could see the trail. Northern Lights still flitted above us. Perfect.
We made town in three and a half hours with only one minor mishap.
 |
| Vapour from open lead in river |
 |
| What does he want now? |
That evening we sat with yet another amazing friend stuffing hot stew, drinking fine wine and happily absorbing the kindness that comes at us from just about every direction. She had not only offered to put us up, but also done most of our shopping.
 |
| Dawson City |
Things took a different turn the next day. We left well before dawn, anxious to get back for our dog. It was warm, 23 below, but snowing lightly and visibility was terrible.
The snow had drifted over the trail. A few miles out of town, we could see nothing. A dim grey oozed into the sky. Our headlights were now of no use and the flat light made travel even harder.
Snowmachines pack the snow into a hard trail as they travel. This “sets up” into a highway that everything here uses (machines, dog mushers, wolves, moose, rabbits, everything).
 |
| Towing sled up a pressure ridge with a rope |
The wind had packed the top six inches of snow into concrete. Every time I get a ski off the trail, I would veer off, one ski would punch through the hardened top layer and the pressure against the spindle would bring me to a halt.
One of us would try to find the trail again underfoot by stumbling around hoping to hit hard pack.
 |
| Digging out |
Neil was towing a heavy sled that dragged him off on side hills. We had to unhook the sled, not easy as the tow hook was often locked tight by the awkward angle. Then we’d dig out and push the Skandic on to the trail.
Next we’d tie a rope from the Skandic to the sled and haul it out of the hole (the machine now being able to get traction on the hard pack).
 |
| Towing sled out of deep snow |
All this with the machines at chest height as we were waist deep in snow.
 |
| Towing Piccolo out of a hole |
Some of the drifts across our path were four feet high. I would get up as much speed as I could and try to crest them, then drop with a slam on to the other side.
 |
| Top of a large drift |
We’d turn off the machines to save gas whilst we got unstuck. These old two-strokes have no electric start so getting going again, each time, means pulling on that heavy pull cord. They got cold as we worked so we had to pull again, and again, and again, maybe a hundred times in. Waist deep in snow.
We started to worry that we would not get home before dark and would be unable to see any landmarks or trail stakes.
Seven hours. 40 miles. Two hours to do just one particularly bad mile.
Still, isn’t it nice to get home to a nice warm cabin and lovely cup of tea?
Our cabin froze down whilst we were away. Everything froze, even our pickles which leaked and oozed vinegar over the shelf. We don’t leave water except for a couple of thermos flasks to feed the dog. If you leave water in a bucket or a kettle it freezes at the top first then, as the rest freezes, it busts out the bottom of the container. So our first job is to get a fire going and then go down to the creek to haul up buckets of water from the waterhole.
Homer was the only thing that wasn’t frozen, thank God. He was delighted to see us and delighted to have a super-duper big feed and a fun walk to the creek.
He was delighted when we left him in the pen 32 hours previously because he got a giant triple breakfast, some moose bones and a rabbit’s head. Cool!
I had always imagined our dog was named after the Simpsons character but I’m beginning to wonder if he wasn’t named for the ancient Greek poet. He takes a philosophical view of the intervening 32 hours alone in the pen and we are taking a lesson from Homer.
We’re sore today but we had a beautiful journey to town, met some wonderful people and got a great little snowmachine, a red one. With only seven hours of hell. Cool!
 |
| Piccolo, safe at home |
Comments
Post a Comment