as each groove we hit caused the front ski to twitch.
When we tried to steer, the bike went in the opposite
direction. The snow bike had a mind of its own. It was
like we were riding a horse for the first time.
Was it us? Brett was running circles around us, so that
was the first clue that it wasn’t the bike. We had some
learning to do. At the end of the road, with nothing but
backcountry ahead of us, we were positive that we were
in over our heads. Where was that Wisconsin lake when
we needed it?
Surprise—as soon as the ski hit the powdered snow,
the Timbersled felt like it was floating on a cloud. Our
grips loosened and the arm pump subsided. Yet, as we
started to get comfortable, Brett hooked a right up a
monstrous hill that no regular dirt bike or snowmobile
would dream of climbing. We pegged the Husaberg 501s
and followed him. I was nervous, and I assumed that
John was shaking in his snow boots, but the Mountain
Horses kept right on climbing. They were amazing, and
pretty soon we were old hands at climbing mountains.
IN A FEW SECONDS, WE WERE
BOBBING AND WEAVING THROUGH
THE TREES, RACING UP AND DOWN
THE MOUNTAIN, AND HITTING
MOGULS LIKE THEY WERE
When we stopped in a valley high on the mountain to
take in the beauty of the Idaho backcountry, I put my foot
down to stop. The next thing I knew, I had a Husaberg
501 lying on top of me. I forgot that we were riding on a
couple feet of fresh powder, and when I put my foot out, it