A snowmachine ride evokes nostalgia but also offers a lesson for living a simple, austere lifestyle

This past week I rode a snowmachine out the Denali Highway to our cabin on the Maclaren River. The trail was well-groomed, though bumpy here and there from wind drifts. Near Tangle Lakes, suddenly tiring of the easy trail, I veered left and cut through unbroken snow toward the south side of Amphitheater Pass; well off the highway with its well-traveled track.

The backside of the Summit was as it had been 50 years ago when I had trapped this country as a kid just out of high school. The body is not quite as young now, but the mindset remains. I ran the lake system south of the Summit, passing through treeless open tundra; the Great Maclaren Desert. My head took me back to the days that no longer seemed so far away.

Upon leaving Delta Junction, my intent was to make a run to Maclaren and check the snow load on the roofs of our cabins. Now, I found myself 15 miles or better from the nearest snowmobile trail without a snowshoe backup. Dumb. I drive a 1987 Super Jag these days. Great machine, kept in good shape, but with over five thousand miles on the original equipment. Do we get what we project? Maybe, because in a few minutes the Jag backfires and inexplicably stalls. I have a couple hundred thousand lifetime snowmachine miles. The vast majority of them on machines older than 2002. That backfire was stator or coil failure. Shut off the handlebar warmers and the lights. Sure enough, the machine fire back up and away we go. A sharp turn to the north and within an hour I am in sight of the Maclaren River (60 years ago the transport would have been a dog team and a failing coil wouldn’t matter).

The cabin is near. The snow this winter is weaker than the snows of the past couple seasons. A few minutes work clears the cabin door and I can fire the wood stove. The stove pipe pokes through the snow on the roof; no need to shovel the pipe out. While the cabin warms, I scoot across the river to Maclaren Lodge. The lodge is full service and full of guests eating, drinking and enjoying the hospitality. My Cat looks tiny and out-of-place among the spanking new hot rods parked out front. A dinosaur? Maybe I am too?

Years pass, things change so slowly that we really don’t notice until something brings us back. I remember way back then ... I walked to Maclaren in October after leaving my truck at Paxson Lodge. The Denali was, (of course), closed. My Ski-Doo was at Maclaren. I was the caretaker in those days. Between Halloween and mid-January, I saw no one. Snowmobiles were around, but not quite as trustworthy as the ones of today. My dog, Collin, and the radio were my companions. By January, Collin could talk as well as I.

A guy who worked at Paxson Lodge, Ray Ipock, finally rode out to Maclaren on his Valmont to see if I was still kicking. Should you be old enough to remember Collin and the Ski-Doo Valmont, you will understand. That was not my first year in the woods. My first season I built a cabin 65 miles from the road and walked a trapline. I was 18 and had fair experience. Fox were worth 20 bucks, wolverine about $90, and wolves a bit more. I made a couple thousand of dollars and thought I was rich.

I ate moose, beans and rice. I took flour and yeast so learned to make pan bread. Cooking was done on top of my heating stove that was made from a five-gallon Blazo can. The cabin was 8-by-8 with a 7-foot ceiling. That cabin warmed up fast!

A kid of 18 who everybody thought was crazy. I looked around and saw people with mortgages and car payments working at jobs they weren’t happy with. Who was crazy? The lesson: Follow your dreams, they lead where you want to go. For my part, possibly this snapshot of a kid growing up, dependent on nothing, will stimulate an interest in the outdoors. If you are tied to a desk and a car payment; put down the iPhone that ties you to a world that is not real. Get out and put your hands in the mud at every opportunity. Live vicariously in the simple lives of those who have long since passed. It was they who opened this land; many times cold, always hungry, yet through that they carried forward the yearning for unseen country and unknown experiences.