A Resilient Snowmobiler: Countering the Norms on a Skidoo

On a Skidoo, I had many moments when I was lucky to survive. There was a time in the town of Gaspé when I went over a snowbank, accidentally hit the kill switch with my helmet. I ended up at a complete stop on a busy four-lane highway with an impending delivery truck. Knowing the driver was texting and driving with the privilege of my position on the National Quality Team, I knew he’d be saying, “But I never saw her.” Gasp, eh?

Snowmobilers get hit crossing highways, and everyone assumes they weren’t looking both ways when they went for it. Who’d imagine a sitting duck of a Skidoo?

Worse, the electric start had quit working that morning, and I’d never pulled-started it. I relied on my companion for that. He was on the other side of the highway, with his back to me. We had no communicators in our helmets.

Luckily, he made it to the other side and turned back. Leaping off, he ran back and started it. I jumped on, too, and we both made it to the other side alive and intact.

Today, my kill switch is rotated out of the accident’s way. Communicators are installed in our helmets, but I still have never pull-started anything but chainsaws, leaf blowers, and lawnmowers.

Someone else broke their ankle doing what I’d done. He worked for the same company as me, but that’s not something we ever discussed; it’s what others told us about each other. It looks like we had more than that in common.

First, Save Yourself

I once had a rule: when you look around and everyone you’re with is marred by the common undertaking, it’s only a matter of time before it happens to you. Get out because you’re not unique, better, or smarter. It’s what’s coming.

Set your ego aside and save yourself, mainly if you’ve depended on someone else to do that for you. Like Canada, don’t expect anyone else to defend you because they’ll eventually get sick and tired of it, right, America?

Along the way, you pick up valuable survival lessons from experts. There was the cop who pulled me over and asked if I knew how to save myself if I fell through the ice. He wouldn’t let me go until he was confident I understood.

Two-two-two, he said. Two seconds to hold my breath because the natural impulse when hitting cold water is to inhale sharply, which would fill my lungs with water, drowning me instantly. Two minutes to attach my mitts to the ice; when they’re wet, they’ll freeze to it, giving you the leverage to pull yourself out—finally, two hours to get dry and warm. I haven’t had to use this knowledge, but many others I know have.

Another time, there was the bare-barked tree. Just before this, I was warned it was coming, and that I would stare at it, wondering how it could be such an oddity. The answer is that people hit it because it sits at the apex of a corner that appears to continue straight.

Sure enough, I had to pull my gaze away to avoid becoming part of the tedious snowmobiler-hits-tree headline that ends badly. You go where your eyes go, so keep them on the trail – not your dashboard, fence, or oncoming rider.

Second, Cause No Harm

I have nearly been hit numerous times by someone determined to tell me how many people are behind them when I can see for myself. Furthermore, I don’t care. I always ride as if there’s a rider coming the other way and a tree across the trail until I can see that it’s clear this time while also scanning for partridge, moose, and deer. On Monday, there was a wolf.

Snowmobile instructions advise people to lift their left hand off the handlebar and use finger signals to alert oncoming riders of the number they can expect from behind. This means that suddenly, their control is divided in half, and they are, by default, heading towards me as they let go of the brake and the handlebar. And they are looking at me, too, not down the trail.

More than once, I’ve decided to pull out my hand and show a fist. I’m the last, it signals, while a pack behind me could be waiting to pass. My mirror is useless for knowing, and I won’t waste my attention looking back. If you want to pass me, do it safely, and power to you.

When it gets cold, I wear muffs on my handlebars. When reaching back into the muff to grab the brake after throwing my fist at the oncoming rider, my mitt can get stuck between the lever and the muff, preventing me from grabbing the brake.

Luckily, the few times this has happened, I’d gone wider than planned around a corner, but every time is a moment when it could have turned out differently. I can’t stop redesigning those muffs in my head.

I’m not telling you anything you can’t see for yourself in challenging terrain or tight corners. Good luck; you might want to hold on, too.

Third, Write Your Own Rules

Colourful stories, indeed, for the language they inspired at the time, leaving wisdom in their wake. If there’s one rule I’d change, it’s always to keep both hands on the handlebars and be prepared with the brake. Eliminate unnecessary communication and divided attention. Focus.

I’ve also learned that when you need something, you often don’t have it—ironically, the opposite is true. If you occupy valuable space with emergency supplies, that emergency might never occur. You may be tempted to think it’s wasted space, but the insurance it provides is priceless.

Witnessing the aftermath of a burning snowmobile at the gas pumps, I realized I didn’t have a tow rope like the one now required. I wondered about the portability of a fire extinguisher and then discovered the rider was a firefighter, watching the numbers whirl away—not the gas level in the tank. Pumps don’t shut off automatically as they do for vehicles. Pay attention to what matters.

Between the two of us, we had a rubber mallet, bush saw, emergency blankets, and more, but we lacked a tow rope. Machinery fails. I ordered one from Canadian Tire to be placed in an easily accessible locker because the inventory showed they only had one, and I couldn’t risk it being sold before I arrived.

I also needed a mirror because interprovincial regulations require one in Quebec but not in Ontario. There was one on my sled in 2023, and it was there when I stored it, but somehow, in 2025, there are holes where the mirror used to be.

So, I’ll stop at the dealer and pack another socket wrench. If it’s a good idea somewhere, it’s likely a good idea everywhere, but mine only serves to avoid a ticket.

With all the errands, we were late arriving. Invariably, the drive is challenging, with whiteouts and slick highways. Lately, news reports confirm my outlook on life: It’s not you; everyone else out there for whom you need to watch out. It’s the transport trucks with new drivers who have never seen snow. It’s the two-wheel drive cars with slick summer tires.

Like us, it’s the overconfident pickup trucks who have a trailer loaded with snowmobiles. I yell to the driver that the car ahead is indeed stopped, not just slowing down. He berates the driver for wanting to live in a home that requires turning left on a two-lane highway. Yep, a narcissist can always find a reason why it’s someone else’s fault.

We arrive at the hotel and ask for a first-floor room to park our sleds out the door. After giving us the key, she tells us that a bus has blocked off our door and he’s had too much to drink to move it—a bus. So much for the room choice, and we are told we must park across at the Walmart.

Also, since we “missed dinner,” the attendant asked me if we still wanted to pay for the package. The package includes only dinner and the room, so let me ask you, do you think I want to pay for dinner if I can’t get it? Is logic lost in translation?

Moreover, I found out later that the package was a gift certificate for the bar, which was still open. We could have had wings, fries, and beer and been overjoyed. Instead, we got a six-pack and sat in our room, picking at the vegetables I packed. Yes, logic is lost in translation.

Perception, Privacy and Passes

The next day, we left without much difficulty, if later than we’d wanted to, after all the unloading and preparing that couldn’t be done the night before. Thanks, bus driver! Why didn’t you have to park at Walmart?

Immediately after leaving the parking lot, I noticed that the brand-new cord for my heated visor was flickering off and on. Without it, I fog up and can’t see. Thanks to the communicators in our helmets, I let my companion know I was having issues, although he was well aware of the source of the wind noise I was transmitting to his helmet.

We stopped for lunch. Ordering is tricky with language barriers, and we wait to see what we get. This time, there were two surprises: His order included the word “sandwich,” but there wasn’t one, and mine said BBQ, but it wasn’t tomato-based or spicy.

At one point, I got a twist in my gut and the alarmed thought that I couldn’t see my sled. My companion got up and walked to the window and back again without a word to me.

After eating, I used all my French skills to reserve the night’s room. It wasn’t enjoyable to announce and repeat all my details in public, including the three-digit code on the back of my plastic, which I thought you were only supposed to share with a computer. Why do you need a postal code to reserve a room?

In the afternoon, we stopped at a much-appreciated warm-up shelter. I used Google Translate to figure out what you weren’t supposed to do with the cake pan suspended from the ceiling, but the translation made no sense. Giving up, we looked outside at our sleds and noticed the trail passes we’d stuck on that morning were gone.

Innocence, Immune Heroes, and Ignored Lights

Shocked, I didn’t believe it was possible. Yet, I’d stuck it there myself just hours ago. It didn’t fall off. I knew that the moment my body knew something was wrong, it was torn off. We both know, viscerally, individually, but we didn’t share our anxieties until that moment. Stolen. Taken, pried off with a knife. Maybe enabled by the cold weather, the adhesive never had a chance to set up.

With recall, I knew who did it, remembering the ha-ha-we-got-away-with-something face that I knew all too well. Still, what to do now? Hours later, kilometres away, we are breaking the law because we no longer have the right sticker. We did retain the paperwork, but that would require explaining, and language was a barrier.

The next day, we headed further north, more remote, seeing only one other sled the whole day. It was buried in slush on a river I’d never seen frozen, and for a mindless second, I thought, should I help the guy?

If I tried, I would have sunk, loaded as I was, and that’s one of the five ways we die – heading into a trap that has already claimed someone, thinking you are an immune hero.

We decided to check on the way back instead, and on the way back, he was loading a slush-filled machine onto a truck. I nodded at him with deep respect – good job, dude. Way to save yourself.

On the way back, my check engine light came on. I said, “Maybe it won’t come back on when I turn it off.”

Arriving back, we went to the room before getting gas to test my wish. I shut it off, and indeed, on the restart, no more threat. Maybe it fixed itself.

Replacements, Repetition, and Red Flags

We decided to head to the permit office and attempt to get them replaced. A day away, we tried to stay in Val d’Or on the way. Arriving at lunch, we hoped to book a room, leave our bags and explore for a while before returning for dinner. Instead, we were told that the internet was down far and wide, and she could do nothing.

I said, “No problem. We’ll eat lunch and then come back.” Knowing they had a great restaurant, we left her to sort it out. Unfortunately, it was Sunday, and that meant brunch until 1:30.

Lunch was a repeat of breakfast. Tasteless eggs, pastries, and breakfast meats with sodium nitrite are the poison that turns my companion into a raging beast on the hunt for water, willing to crush anything in his path to get it.

How do you pack water with you when it freezes in minutes? Once, we had cupholders zip-tied close to the clutch just for a bottle of water, but that was then. With fear, I watched him risk a sausage.

A healthy hour and a half later (almost two hours), there was no resolution to the internet solution. In COVID, he’d been snowmobiling when the world shut down. No more hotels, or food, or gas. He and his gang rode for an unfathomable amount of distance and time, and here, it felt like another one of those times, or close enough—four digits of kilometres in one day to find a bed.

Patience was lost in the heat it cost to be sitting there almost fully dressed. Later, I discovered that a bill for ninety dollars for our disappointing lunch had been paid, and anger and impatience were getting stirred into the sodium nitrite monster about to rear its ugly head.

A turn was missed, an argument ensued, and it was my fault, even though I wasn’t the leader, navigator or decision-maker. I’d used the wrong tone of voice when I asked which way we were going, pushing him into making a fast decision instead of the right one.

Pissed off at the blame, I decided to have my ride, and I waited for him to get way ahead while I stayed way behind. Like kilometres, far enough to be in and out of reach for the communicators.

However, he did hear me scream, “Restez dans la sentier, assholes!” I told him that I’d also given them the finger after passing. I’d seen one of them jump the trail directly before me, and I hit the brakes. If I hadn’t, his buddy, who didn’t look either way, would have hit me in the head with his track.

Almost dying makes me angry. People abusing trail privileges and disrespecting landowners also anger me, as I have lost a canoe and my favourite old trails, never to be on a map again. So many roads these days substitute for trails.

Less than an hour later, I heard that an Expedition sled was across the trail. Suspecting an accident, I pressed my brake hard and came almost to a stop to see two people attempting an 18-point turn before speeding away down the trail.

Without warning, with my bumper, I could have crushed both their right thighs at a minimum and would have launched myself into the air, which typically doesn’t land well.

I was informed that there was another one ahead. They had been off-trail in the hydro line, and although the hand signal was given that I was coming, he proceeded to go back onto the trail in front of me.

The Universal Signal of Apology and Remorse

Instead of pulling out of the way and looking down at the ground with chagrin as I went by, they raced ahead. He raced because, in every corner, one ski was in the air. I ordered us after them as sheer technology and practice were on my side.

The chase was on, with that little girl on the back who kept turning around to see the terminator in me still coming, still coming, then hammering on the driver’s shoulder like reins on a horse. With all my ordering, my visor steamed up, and I had to slow down to open a frozen-closed lid.

My buddy got by the Expedition, and we had him boxed in, only to come up to a groomer broken down across the trail. We got ahead, and my buddy gave the thumbs up to the lead guy, who likely had no idea what had happened to me.

Wanting to leave a clear message, I gave them the finger as we sped off. “Which one?” my buddy asked, and I said, “The middle one.” I’m sure it will land as required, so there was no need to waste time and attention aiming. What difference does the last one, the first one, make? Did anyone see?

At the next road crossing where we had to wait, the lead guy approached me and said something in French. I gave the trespasser my dragon face, although with my sunglasses down, I’m not sure if he saw it, and we left. I wished his friend would hit a tree and learn a lesson about backing into oncoming traffic when you can’t see for miles. If it must be said, it’s dangerous for everyone. Can’t you merge safely?

The Universal Sign of Guilt and Fear

Why are you running? And so out of control? Just because there’s a speed limit doesn’t mean you should do it. Know your limit and ride within it.

Did I look like a cop, you trespassing dangerous driver? Cops wear vests that say who they are and lights to alert their authority.

The lucky rest have cameras, social media, and shame in our toolkits. Ever been passed by a woman? I hear it sucks.

At first, I looked like a girl. It was fitting as I transitioned from a snowboarder with horseback riding experience to a snowmobiler and all the lessons along the way.

Then, one day, looking like a woman became dangerous. Some start to speed up, not slow down when you get alongside them, and it becomes a contest of who will win. After years of wearing men’s outfits, I finally wear a woman’s suit today without apology or fear.

Post-race, we were lower on gas than calculated and unsure where gas could be found. We consulted maps, located CAA cards, and saw someone walking around a nearby house.

At the very least, CAA needed an address. I waited as told until it was discovered that he had gas he could sell us. How lucky! He asked for forty, so I gave him fifty. It wasn’t pleasant when you had many chances and carried your spare can. A station was only another nine kilometres, but you don’t gamble with ambiguity, never back down from a fight, and always tip a saviour.

The Universal Signs of Aggression and Ignorance

After almost dying twice in one day, I had difficulty getting the dragon back in the cage. At the Le Cage restaurant, the waitress sat us in the crowded, loud bar, and I shook my head and said, “Oh good, now I don’t have to tip.”

She left, not worried, because it wasn’t her tip. I forcefully pulled out my chair, causing six or seven men to have to move, and then smiled sweetly and said, “Oh, sorry!”

The waitress came to take our order and then explained that the menu was on our phones, which we didn’t bring because we were having dinner with each other, not with our phones. What happened to menus and the cheaply reusable everyday items that don’t need charging?

She brought a tiny menu, and I ordered the cheapest thing, and my buddy ordered the most expensive. She later explained that my fries weren’t ready yet, so his rare steak was under the heat lights, waiting for them.

I was stunned at her reasoning but couldn’t catch her before she left. Moments later, I guess she caught my train of thought. After my buddy was done eating, my fries arrived. Why was eating together so difficult?

Still, I tipped her, and she said I was generous. I was sure I would never come back, and there was more wrong than was her fault.

If this is what it was like at seven on Sunday, how come 8:30 on Thursday was too late for the package of one hundred dollars to be spent at the bar when it’s confirmed I won’t be driving any time soon? How does so much get lost in translation?

I called the permit office to confirm that it was open. I asked if she spoke English, and she said no. She asked if I spoke French, and I replied, “Un peu, très mal.”

She said something I didn’t understand. I said, “Merci,” waited for a response, and hung up to meet her.

First, we needed oil. The singular last available jug was across town. I waited in the room, guarding the sleds, while he drove to get the oil. Upon his return, he said the truck was misbehaving, misfiring, and stinking.

When we arrived at the permit office, the door was locked. We decided to get gas and check back later. When we returned, there she was. I completely forgot about Google Translate, the microphone, and instant help, but it turned out okay.

“Perdu,” I told her, allowing her to deduce what she wanted. Another person arrived, and she informed him, “Perdu.” He looked down in chagrin despite his innocence.

Once everything was sorted, we packed up to leave. When she tried apologizing for her English, I said, “Non, moi, désolée.” I was in her land; there was no reason for her to feel sorry. However, I felt pretty sorry as I squirmed, squinted, and tried to provide her with the information she needed to assist us, including my account password, while forking an additional eighty bucks.

Before heading home, we decided to go for a quick ride. At one intersection, I asked if there was somewhere to eat, and there was only “Ferme Lundi,” which I’d already translated, although I was more concerned about the truck.

An hour later, I remarked, “That’s the third time I’ve said I’d rather be headed to the truck now.” Twenty minutes later, we were finally turning around.

With Appreciation and Gratitude

Then we saw the lights—two sets of cop lights pulling us over. My buddy said they were the first he’d seen in a decade, but it was about seven years ago. At the time, he pretended he wasn’t going to stop, and they threatened to clothesline him. It was a big laugh all around.

This time, I told the story in English to an English-speaking cop. He didn’t inquire about the when or where of the missing initial trail pass but was intrigued to take a photo of the mark only a knife could have left.

I was happy to see their presence; they said they were there daily. I told him we were headed to the truck, but with season passes, we might be back.

There they were again, after I stopped to reattach my visor cord and then again when they stopped at a popular intersection—three times in one day. There were lots of smiles and waving, like a safe escort home.

Performance problems had fixed themselves back at the truck, so it seemed. It’s never the case, however. Nothing fixes itself.

On the drive back, I reflected with appreciation and gratitude. The tow rope was still in the box in which it came, but even so, I think the messages are getting a little too loud, the escape too narrow, and the saviours too lucky.

When you count to two, know there’s a third coming, and please heed your warnings as I will heed mine. I don’t want to be another headline that highlights the boring part of the story—Woman Passes Man On Snowmobile; Everyone Gets Out Alive.