It moved an inch. Maybe.

I had to stop again, and breathe. Consciously trying to breathe, breathe, breathe.

Then grab the handle at the front of the snowmobile again, jerking up and to the right as hard as possible.

Maybe another inch.

I was stuck in the second of two "troughs" in the trees along the trail leading from the lake up to the pass. An amateur to snowmobiling, the term "trough" was new to me. Know it well, now.

Most snowmobile travel is done on packed trails. Especially when in the trees, because snow under conifers rarely sees sunlight, rarely gets hard on its own until spring thaw. Instead, it stays a soft powder. Slip off the packed trail, and you're floundering up to your hips, or waist, in cold, loose snow.

But in certain places, where the trail climbs and you cannot get a running start because of a twist or steep dip in the path, the machine tracks have to dig hard into the packed trail bed. And occasionally someone breaks through into the powder below. But the bed under the runners, on both sides of the track, remains hard and raised above the new powder in the center.

So you end up the exact opposite of high-centered. The machine hangs up on the runners, but the track hangs down below, spinning uselessly in loose powder.

And it no go.

The local warden, our guide on this excursion, had recommended just hitting these troughs as hard as you can to get through on your momentum.

Of course, each was at the beginning of another curve, so he said you couldn't go too fast, lest your momentum take you off the trail and into powder (or trees).

Two of us sat idling by and watched the fellow before us take the first trough, trying to run his sled up the hard-packed snow on the right side.

Worked, but he ended up over-shooting into the trees, which took considerable wrangling to get back on trail. When my turn came, I tried the same, but slower, to avoid the trees.

Ended up sunk in the trough, me alongside my machine, at shoulder height, trying to guide it back onto the trail. Took three of us to get it done.

I was alone when I hit the second and last trough, the machine behind me obviously failing to negotiate the first trough and blocking the rest of the pack. As before, I tried to straddle the hard right side of the trough, but with more speed than before.

We went into the trees.

I felt the heavy machine coming up at the same time as my body was going down, and got the wind knocked completely out of me. Stood there for a minute or two, gasping for air and looking at the sled, its left runner hanging onto the packed trail for dear life.

Wasn't too hard to lift the rear of the sled back onto the trail, but I still couldn't breathe! And then I started on the front, where the engine and all the weight is.

Now, they have handles on the runners of these machines, but they're useless. Being on the front of the ski, you lift there, and the back of the ski goes down. But nothing moves. You gotta grab the rail on the machine itself, and lift.

Not so easy when you're overweight and out of shape. And sinking in powder.

And can't breathe.

And yeah, I considered the risk of heart attack while doing this. A friend, the warden for this country at the time, died on a trail somewhere near this lake. Of a heart attack while snow machining. At the same age I am now. So I checked. No pain in the chest, no pain in the left arm.

I just can't catch my breath.

But I keep on lifting. Grab the handles. Lift. Gain an inch. Do it again. And again.

Just as I've about got the front end back on the trail, help arrives on foot from the trail up front, in the form of the boss, one of my wardens, and the local warden. Now, the local warden probably doesn't want to be here right now, 'cause I asked him before we set out if this would be a ride a novice could handle.

"Yeah, it's an easy ride," he had said.

"Except for a couple places."

Guess I found one. In one last heave, the boss and I have my machine on the trail, start it running, and then trot alongside until we're well pass the trough. And stop to breathe. When I finally have some air in my lungs, I turn to the local warden, and in an accusing voice, ask...

Is this how 'K' had his heart attack?

I wasn't prepared for the answer.

"Well, yeah. He was helping somebody get unstuck here."

The boss is as awestruck as I, and wants to know if we heard right. "'K' died here?"

And the warden points past us to the trough we have just left.

"Right there."

The place where I got stuck, the place where I could not breathe... is the place my friend died. These are the trees that watched, this is the view he had in his last moments.

There is no time to linger, to understand what we have just learned. The roar of other machines is coming up the trail, and they'll be barreling through the trough without knowing we're just around the corner. We pile on my machine, and speed away.

We're riding three on a machine designed to hold at most two, and the warden behind me is soon bucked off.

Problem is, I was leaning back on him. And now find myself hanging on for dear life by my knees, stretched out flat behind the boss, my head probably just inches from the trail.

And I can't get back up. We're hill climbing now, bouncing over dozens of small moguls, and he's got us gunned flat out, totally unaware of my predicament. So I'm bouncing along like a mud flap off the end of the machine, too scared to let go, unable to sit upright. Felt like I was on one of those mechanical bulls.

Warden left behind said it was one of the funniest things he'd ever seen.

Finally we hit a bump just right, and my torso is thrown in the air, allowing me to re-grip the machine and finish the last 50 meters in a semi-dignified position.

From there it was an easy, enjoyable ride to the pass. And then a wonderful winding ride up a steep, snow-filled draw to the top of the Divide. We had been warned the ride up the chute might be difficult, but it was wonderful. Constant, gentle twists and turns in a totally white, narrow valley with gentle curves.

Yeah, there was that one hole, about two machines wide, that dropped several meters down to jagged rocks. Why the wind churned out that hole in the middle I do not know, but I'd hate to find it in the dark, or in a white-out.

As we savor the view on top. I ask a local if we can see a certain feature. And he easily points it out.

'K's Pass. Officially named after 'K' by the federal government following his death. A pass that he had pioneered the trail through.

A fitting tribute.