A Snowmobile and a Prayer

By Marv Schouten, Lynden, Washington

As appeared in

Opening the blinds early that morning, I wondered if I'd be able to catch a glimpse of Mount Baker 40 miles away. The 10,000-foot peak dominates the Nooksack River Valley. At least it does on the days when you can see it. Western Washington isn't known for its clear skies. Even in late May, clouds can sometimes shroud the landscape for weeks at a time. But that morning, the view looked postcard-perfect.

All spring Chad Gruizenga, a part-time employee at my company, Pacific Pumping, had been after me to join him for a snowmobile run on Mount Baker. "I know you've got the world on your shoulders, Marv," he'd say with a smile. "But you need to put it all down for a day and just have some fun."

Chad had a point. But I had a company to run, plus my wife, Rachelle, and our three kids to worry about. Keeping things operating smoothly at work and at home took most of my time. I didn't resent my responsibilities. I liked being in charge, but I barely had time for church on Sunday, so I really didn't have time to go out and play.

Finally, though, I'd given in to Chad. That day we bundled up and hit the range of glaciers that make up much of Mount Baker. By 10 o'clock, we unloaded a pair of Ski-Doo High Marks—large, powerful snowmobiles that can go as fast as 80 miles per hour—from my pickup truck just south of the mountain. We fired them up and tore down the trail like a couple of kids set loose from school on a snow day.

Halfway to the glaciers I started sweating profusely in my helmet and ski jacket. It was getting really uncomfortable. I motioned to Chad to stop.

"This sun is hot. I think I'm gonna stow some of this gear."

"Good idea," said Chad. "We can pick it up on the way back."

Chad and I tucked our gloves and helmets away behind a big hummock of snow that would be easy to locate on our return trip. I was about to ditch my jacket too, but at the last moment stuck it under my seat instead. The compartment there was empty except for a can of Mountain Dew, and the ride home later might get chilly. Soon we hit the glaciers and started to climb. Far above us, we could see wisps of steam rising from Sherman Crater. The crater was several miles up, but in the dazzling white terrain it looked just a stone's throw away.

Not many snowmobilers venture all the way up to the crater. Too dangerous. The higher you go, the greater the threat of crevasses—deep cracks in the ice that can swallow a snowmobile and rider whole. Crevasses are especially hazardous when they get covered by a thin crust of snow. To travel that high on the mountain meant risking an encounter with one of these camouflaged traps—and that kind of foolhardiness definitely wasn't my style.

Yet as I squinted at that distant column of steam, I couldn't help thinking how much fun it would be to see it up close. After all, this was a day for cutting loose.

"Hey, Chad," I yelled. "Come on. Let's make a run for the crater."

Chad grinned. "You read my mind."

Engines roaring, we charged side by side up the glacier. My ears popped as we climbed the slope into the thin mountain air. After 20 minutes of hard riding, Chad waved for me to stop.

"I think we need to turn back," he said. "It's too far, and I'm getting nervous about crevasses."

Chad was the daredevil. As his boss and his senior by more than a decade, my role was to be the sensible one. But not today. I looked him right in the eye. "Hey, I thought we were gonna have some fun."

Chad rose to the challenge without hesitation. "Now you're talking. Let's do it."