Forty-below Windchill

Our good friend Gloria emailed me this morning asking if I would please post a new story today. Since she, and many other Minnesotans are at this moment suffering in a polar deep freeze, and suffering from cabin fever, she wanted a little cheap entertainment. So, just for you Gloria and Dave, I bring you this next story.

I was in fourth grade and it was deep winter. It was one of those months where the temperature never seemed to get above zero. We were going a little stir crazy in the house so we decided to brave the cold and try to start up the Ski-Doo (that’s a snowmobile for all you Californians). But it was really hard trying to start it up in weather that cold. So my dad and Uncle Karl helped me by pulling the starting rope over and over and over and over. Finally the Ski-Doo sprang to life. My Uncle and father were greatly relieved because now they could rid of me for a while.

With a Ski-Doo full of gas I headed out across the open fields to the back 40 (that’s acres for you Californians). My grandfather’s fields were the perfect snowmobile winter playground. And we had just been blessed by a couple of feet of snow, piled high into drifts that were perfect for hitting at high speed and flying into the air.

I headed out over a big hill, quite cautiously. Earlier that same winter I went screaming over that same hill and hit a large flock of pheasants feeding on the other side. The force of the impact sent me flying off the Ski-Doo and one of the birds broke the windscreen and my helmet. It was a bloody mess. Once over the hill I opened up the machine and screamed farther and farther away.

I was creating my own forty-below-zero wind chill factor going at that speed so I slowed down. The severe cold had penetrated my face and my gloves. Once at the very back property line of the farm I decided I was too cold and so I decided to go back home. I also decided to slow down. That was a mistake.

Slowing the Ski-Doo caused the engine to hesitate in the cold. Then it stopped. It could not have been in a worse place. After 20 minutes trying to get it started I was exhausted and freezing. I decided that I would be in serious trouble if I didn’t head for home. So I did. Once home I explained to the adults what happened. I warmed up and thought my troubles were over. But then my dad and uncle, who were still talking about the Ski-Doo, decided it would not be good to leave it out all night. Why not? Who was going to take it way out there in the woods? The squirrels were all sleeping.

My dad decided to stay home and let my uncle go with me. He thought he knew what the problem was and he was going to show me a “trick.” My Uncle Karl was always playing jokes on everyone. For years after family gatherings I would find a clothespin attached to my shirt with a goofy word like “potty” or “buggers” written on it. It wasn’t until I was in my 30’s before I busted him at a family reunion clipping one on me. That was my Uncle Karl. I knew today the joke would be on me but I really wanted to see what it was. So I went.

It took us forever to trudge back out into the back field. We were freezing. We finally reached the Ski-Doo and now Uncle Karl was sorry he came. He didn’t know it was really as far as I said it was. He pulled on the rope a couple of times, tinkered with the engine a bit, pulled some more, tinkered some more, and then said, “Well, here’s the problem.” He pointed to a small bit of ice in the clear fuel line blocking the fuel flow. “Alright, let me show you a little trick. Turn around, don’t look.” I had no idea what he was about to do but I turned away, awaiting the prank. I heard a zip, then the sound of flowing water. “What is that?” I thought to myself. Did he bring a flask of cocoa with him?

“Done!” he said. So I turned around and found the engine compartment and front part of the seat completely soaked in some odd liquid. Then I realized that Uncle Karl had just peed on my Ski-Doo. I had no idea why he thought that would be funny. Now we had to walk back and I had to explain to my dad that not only did we fail to get the thing started, but Uncle Karl had gone wee-wee all over my snowmobile.

But then Uncle Karl grabbed the starting rope, gave it a few pulls, and the snowmobile started right up. “Quick,” he shouted, “hop on and drive me back.” Normally the ranking adult male would be in the driver’s seat but cool Uncle Karl, who had just melted the fuel line using his own potty, let me do the driving back to the house. I opened up the throttle and we made a bee-line for the house.

After about five minutes of hard driving I realized why Uncle Karl had let me drive. Once the engine warmed up, all his pee started to bake off the engine, soiling my clothes with the horrid smell of burnt wiz. He stayed nice, clean, and odor free. The joke was now literally, on me.

Once home, Uncle Karl was the hero and I smelled like his incinerated urine. Uncle Karl made me take an oath not to tell my mom. My dad laughed and knew exactly why I was changing my clothes. I did my laundry immediately and even used an extra cup of Downy. But uncle Karl taught me a very valuable lesson that day. Always drink a huge cup of coffee before going outside in the winter. You never know what you’ll need to melt.