In my last column I addressed the rather large sums of money required to get oneself set up for snowmobiling. Even if you’re one of those pragmatic sled owners who “just want one for ski-touring access,” the startup costs are not dissimilar. And while accessing new ski-touring terrain was a primary motivator for my own sled ownership, well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
As a first-season sledder, the ski-touring access days were actually a great way to start off. The process of loading, securing, driving and then unloading my sled was enough problem solving for the first couple of outings. Driving a sled on groomed roads (bumps and whoops notwithstanding) isn’t particularly difficult, but it is physically demanding, especially when you’re figuring out how your machine behaves at speed. Stance, body position, over-gripping the handlebars, it all takes it out of you.
Just like most sledding rookies, I had the benefit of more experienced friends to show me the ropes. With their guidance (and occasional assistance to help me get my sled upright again) I was soon able to turn and carve my sled in deeper snow with an acceptable level of control. But knowing all too well the difference that professional instruction can make in other mountain sports, I wanted to see if I could experience another breakthrough on the learning curve before the snow turned to melt-freeze for the rest of the spring.
So last weekend I hit up Broken Boundary Adventures (based out of Pemberton) for a full-day clinic. Broken Boundary owner and COO Tyler Kraushar has been leading groups in the Hurley and Rutherford sled zones for more than 10 years and reassured me that even though I’d be showing up for a beginner clinic, there would be plenty to learn with the small group.
Getting to the staging area was the first exciting challenge of the day, taking about 90 minutes from Whistler in total, including four kilometres of snow patches up the Hurley in order to reach the groomed trail. Once the rest of the crew arrived and unloaded their gear, Tyler began the clinic without even starting a snowmobile. Opening the left side panel of my machine, he shook his head when he saw the level of my oil reservoir.
“Got oil, Vince?” he jibed.
I didn’t, cursing my rookie error of not bringing extra oil in my truck, and sheepishly accepted a top-up from one of the other attendees. Two-stroke machines burn gasoline and a proportionately lower amount of oil at the same time, and while I thought I had enough for the day, I learned that a low oil reservoir can cause the engine to suck in air when the engine is running on its side, as it often is.
“Full, before every ride,” instructed Tyler. I nodded my head.
By the time we were through all the mechanical checks, I could already count the dollars saved from avoiding potential mechanical mishaps. Belt tension, chain tension, belt wear, grease ports for my suspension... I started making a list of more tools I need to purchase in order to keep my sled running and out of the expensive repair shops.
Once we got a few kilometres up the trail, Tyler showed me a trick called “chainsawing” to quickly cool down my engine temperature. Mountain sleds are built for riding in powder, so compact, groomed roads will inevitably cause overheating. By tilting my machine on its side with a regulated throttle, I effectively sawed a trench with my track and immersed the back of the machine into spraying snow. The engine cooled down double digits in a matter of seconds. It’s a great trick, especially when dealing with the long road distances of the Hurley.
We arrived at a fresh meadow where Tyler coached us on handling the sled onto one ski to initiate a carve. It takes throttle control, counter steering and balancing your weight, all simultaneously. I’d had a bit of practice at this already this season, so Tyler challenged me to see how tight I can turn by laying the sled further over on its side. I promptly got stuck.
“Think of it as riding into a big berm on your mountain bike,” he analogized. “The more you lay it over, the more speed you need to counteract gravity. Here, overcoming gravity comes with more throttle.”
After a few semi-successful attempts and a handful of rollovers, I left the meadow with a slightly boosted confidence. Then we got to the sidehilling session. Tyler demonstrated the control possible while crossing a steep slope, half his body hanging off the machine on the uphill side, the throttle constantly pulsing. I discovered there’s a whole lot more going on than that when I attempted to sidehill a small mound at the base of the slope and got bucked like a rodeo cowboy. But I understood the theory.
With a couple of productive skills sessions behind us, Tyler led us out to an alpine bowl where we could let loose with a bit more room. I managed a few sidehills and made sure to get some downhill carving face shots, which I’ve discovered is one of my favourite parts of sledding. Hoots and hollers were heard between the high-pitched whine of two-stroke engines.
Confidence elevated, I tackled a steeper sidehill when my ski hit something solid under the snow, rolling my sled on its side before I was able to recover. My body came down on the relatively pointy edge of my snowmobile ski, ribs first, and the crash knocked the wind right out of me. I think I found my limit for the day.
After a few minutes I collected myself, the pull-start causing aches from my bruised abdomen. It was time to head back, but, bruised ego and all, I couldn’t wait to get out braaping again.
Vince Shuley is converted. For questions, comments or suggestions for The Outsider email [email protected] or Instagram @whis_vince.
