There is no other feeling in the world like cruising on a snowmobile down a freshly groomed trail, smooth as glass, at fifty or sixty miles an hour and having the power to go faster. There is nothing like the feeling of the cold crisp mountain air pinching your nose closed or frosting your thoughts when you take a deep breath as you step out of the door.

There is no other sight like the early morning sun's glare rising over the mountain tops, capped with a fresh coat of powder. Nor is there a sight to compare with the mountain trees, every inch coated with ice as if they were an artist's sculpture, and when the sunlight reflects off the ice, it seems to bring them alive like nothing I can imagine. The only thing I can compare the sight of ice-coated trees to is the sight of a white tailed doe and its fawn springing from their snow beds and galloping off into a thicket of snow-dusted pines.

There is also the power that I feel when another rider and I go racing off down the trail side by side. As we go into the corner, the inside man has the advantage and comes out in front. I emerge from the corner in the middle of a cloud of snow dust given off by the rear of the leader's machine, but the power of my machine will soon carry me past the leader on the straight and into the next corner. I will emerge the leader and do the same to him in retaliation by leaving him in a snow cloud by fishtailing the rear of my machine, but it is done in good fun and friendly competition.

The feeling can only be described as adrenaline, or a rush. These thoughts and feelings are occurring on the first of November in anticipation of the up-coming season and also in reminiscence of seasons past in my Winter Wonderland. n