The following winter- actually, it was during spring break- a neighbor named Galen offered to help me get to the broom. It was late march, but the snow was still deep in northern Washington. Early on a Saturday morning, we headed up to the pass. After unloading two snow mobiles, the neighbor and I started off on the road.
About a mile in, we found a car that had been abandoned in the middle of the road, buried in a couple of feet of snow. It was a bit of a mystery. We surmised that it had been there since the fall, since there was no way that you could get a car in there when there was snow on the ground.
At two miles in, Galen's machine broke down. We fiddled with it for a few minutes, and then determined that it wouldn't be starting again. Perhaps unwisely, I went on alone.
I don't have a lot of snow mobile experience. The snow was melting and very soft (I later learned that no one goes up there that late in the year). Things went well for the first several miles, though I had a growing sense of unease. I was miles away from any other humans, and I would have trouble getting back out if there was trouble. I did have snow shoes, but with every mile, I knew that getting out would be a marathon effort.
I have found that a trek like that is more emotionally taxing than it is physically. We have fear of these situations for good reason. A lone human in the wilderness is so vulnerable- to the elements, predators, and perhaps his own fears themselves.
As I climbed onto the south-facing mountain slopes, the quality of the snow began to change significantly. In the open spaces, the sun had melted much of the snow from the road- particularly next to the bank on the uphill side. The snow was mounded in the center and sloped off to each side, creating a precarious and narrow level space for me to ride on. If I'd been a more experienced and confident rider, I would have been able to power through the soft spots and keep going. As it was, I slowed down and stayed on the inside edge of the crown of the road. This caused me to slide down into the ditch on the inside edge of the road, burying the sled and getting it stuck.
When you are alone, getting a sled unstuck is not an easy task. I managed to get the sled unstuck and moving again three or four times. Finally, I put on the snow shoes, determined to walk the last mile to the tree.
After a few yards, my growing unease at the situation rose to an uncomfortable level. If I manged to get to the tree, I'd still have to climb that brutal bank and wade through the snow to the tree. It seemed unlikely to me that I'd be able to do the climb after I'd been yanking the snow mobile around by myself- not to mention a mile trek on snow shoes.
Reluctantly, I turned back. I hurt my back while turning the sled around. I was disappointed, but I knew that I'd made the right choice. If I got fatigued enough out there, I might not have the strength to get back to the sled quickly. Despite my warm clothes, I was worried about hypothermia. It would be too easy to die out there.
I rode back down to Galen, and we towed his machine back to the trucks with a piece of rope.
The border patrol was there in the parking lot. Dad, who had been waiting there, said that the border patrol guy asked him who we all were and where we lived. Apparently, there is an overland drug-smuggling route up there- and there are cameras and sensors up the road to monitor activity. When they noticed us going up there at a weird time of year, they came out to check it out. I learned that the car that we saw was from a drug-run gone bad. Two men had gone in on a drug run and got stuck. One walked out, while the other attempted to walk across the border. The one who tried to make it across froze to death.
Knowing that someone had frozen to death in that area made me even more glad that I had the sense to come down when I did.
Oh, it isn't over yet... tune in next week to hear about yet another attempted to reach this god damned broom!
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