Oh, the mountain air. Oh, the terror.

Well I'm back from a snowmobile trip with my bro and dad.  You're as shocked as I am.  Yes, I actually avoided death.  Narrowly, mind you, but here I am getting back into the swing of things with two new jobs on the go :)  But before we move on, let me try and illustrate a graphic picture for you.

Mountain-scape snowmobiling is something the men in my family have been doing for years and the most dangerous thing I've recently forced myself to do.  Before I agreed to this care-free getaway with the boys, I thought hey, this will be an excellent opportunity to reconnect with my brother and maybe even prove to my dad that the butch hasn't been completely squeezed out of me.  Little did I know how dangerously close I would come to shitting my pants and death or serious injury.  Don't get me wrong, I did enjoy myself in low elevations and on long-stretching plateaus of waist-deep powder.  The air was alpine-y and fresh, and the scenic beauty was incredible.  Every day in the mountains is a good day.  I did not, however, enjoy attempting to climb an icy 60 degree, 500 meter incline of terror, cease to move forward half way up, start sliding backwards, shitting my pants, flipping the skidoo 3 times, scrambling out of the way and narrowly avoiding a crushed face.  After the second time it happened, there were moments when the sheer terror of my (what seemed like then) imminent death could've killed me.  Or at least sent me into sweaty, sweaty convolutions.

On the plus side, helmets + very loud skidoo motors = very loud singing of Stevie Wonder & Broadway show tunes :)