Oops, I Parked My Ski‑Doo in a Tree

In Sudbury, the winters arrive early and without apology. Two weeks each year dip below minus forty, and the air grows so still it feels like the world is holding its breath. You learn quickly there are only a handful of things worth leaving the house for—and if you’re from Northern Ontario, chances are one of them is a snowmobile.

At thirteen, I was handed the reins to my own. A 500cc Ski-Doo, forest green like the pines behind our house. We weren’t allowed far, not yet, but that didn’t matter. My friends and I tore through the back fields like we’d been born to it.

That afternoon, Ghislain and I were chasing air. We found a frozen field a few kilometers out and started hitting jumps. Then, mid-run, the engine died. We tried hand-cranking. Nothing. We pulled the spark plugs, dried them out, tried again. Still nothing. After a few more futile attempts, Ghislain stood up, dusted off his gloves, and told me he was going to get my dad.

Left alone, I slumped back into the seat—my chariot, noble and now embarrassingly still. I could already see my father’s disappointed face. But then, in the silence, I noticed something: the safety cable. Dislodged. I clipped it back in, gave the crank one more pull and—Vroom—the machine purred like it had never stopped.

By then, Ghislain was already at the far edge of the field, turning toward the ravine that led back to my house. I couldn’t let him reach my dad—not yet. Not like this. I throttled forward.

That trail, you should know, rides beside a creek. In summer, it babbles through the ravine. In winter, it hardens, becomes the smoothest track around—though six feet lower than the path beside it.

I bolted for the creek bed and caught his tail light flickering ahead. There was a slope just behind him that rose up to rejoin the trail. I aimed for it. Misjudged. The Ski-Doo and I launched two meters into the air and slammed into the trees. The windshield cracked, branches slapped across my suit, and then—all was quiet.

Ghislain, watching from his rearview, had already slowed. He leapt off his sled and ran. I was on my back in the snow, two meters from the wreckage, staring at the upside-down machine tangled in a tree. I kept muttering the same thing over and over: “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

An adult happened by, drawn by the glow of a headlight beneath the roots. He helped us cut the sled down, then muttered something about luck and idiocy and how we were too young to die. Ghislain and I rode home in silence. The windshield dangled. The cab was scarred, one mirror gone like an offering. Neither of us spoke.

At home, I opened the door, stood in the entrance, and called out: “Dad, I have something to show you.”

He came down the stairs, looked at me—really looked—then quietly grabbed his coat. We stepped outside together. My chariot waited, dented and bowed.

I braced for it.

But nothing came.

Just a long moment. Then a sigh, and his hand on my shoulder.

“You know,” he said, “I did the same thing when I was your age.”

I looked up, hopeful.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he added, “you’ll be paying for the repairs. But I’m glad you’re okay.”

And just like that, a boy’s crash became a father’s memory, and something unspoken passed between us—steady, simple, and warm as the engine's first purr.