It is probably the cardinal rule of snowmobiling.

Never go anywhere alone.

Those damn machines are notorious for breaking down. A defect I've never quite understood, since ATVs and motorcycles run on similar engines, but are much more reliable. But I guess, with their pull-start engines, sleds are probably more like lawnmowers than any other wheeled vehicle. The other problem is that modern snowsleds are so huge that a single person usually can't move them around.

That's why they have to come with a "reverse" gear. But "reverse" doesn't do you a bit of good if you've dropped into a deep hole, or slipped off into feet and feet of loose powder.

Think about trying to lift a Harley up onto a six foot drift of powdered snow. You need lots of muscles to do it. Usually more than those of two people.

So, my warden and I came upon a dilemma this morning. We were parked at the first impenetrable drift of snow off the interstate, which happens to actually be on the interstate, preparing to head out on two snowmachines. And knowing that mine, the older and lighter of the two, had just been repaired from the minor damage inflicted upon it this night, I decided to try to start it before dumping it off the trailer.

And it no start.

In technical terms, the pull cord was failing to engage the flywheel. According to the mechanic consulted less than an hour later, the "dog" had probably broken off.

The good news was, the boss rode this machine last, just yesterday, so I'm off the hook. I didn't break it.

Bad news is, we still need to get out there into the desert. But this machine can't be repaired until early next week.

We have only one sled. If we don't go, we're wasting an absolutely, positively gorgeous winter day.

Now, there is an axiom to that first cardinal rule:

Never ride any farther than you're willing to walk.

Where we need to go is only a three-mile ride. And we'd never be more than a mile from either the interstate or the railroad.

True, you can die in a lot less distance in our winters. Fellow died of exposure walking a residential street in our town earlier this winter. Two women died trying to walk home from their stuck vehicles. One attempted a half-mile trek, the other less than 300 meters (she died less than 20 meters from her door).

But those fatalities were during ground blizzards. We have sunshine and calm skies.

And a real strong incentive to go out into the sage and greasewood.

We have to look for pee.

Really.

So yeah, we went. And this was pretty much my view for three bumpy miles.

Those of you most astute may have noticed something.

My warden, my driver, is... female.

Married. As am I, of course. Which creates a whole new dilemma which I never had to worry about any of the other times I doubled up on a snowmachine.

Where do I hang on?

I mean, grabbing around the waist is kinda out of the question, you know? Maybe she would be professional enough not to mind, but judging by the looks her husband gave us as we departed her home with a single good sled, I think he might.

So, within the first couple hundred meters, I found out that if I wedged the widest part of my boots into the running board edges and clamped tight with my ankles, I could kinda stay on.

Should I mention I was sitting right exactly where the sled says "Ne asseyez ici"?

Which, for those of you inexperienced with French, means "Do not sit here."

But my driver was deliberately careful on the steeper drifts, and we made the trip without me tumbling off. And soon found what we were looking for.

Elk.

This lone bull was feeding close to the tracks, and tearing at the snow with his antlers to bare off any forage to eat. And there, another mile or so off, was the main group.

We approached these until they noticed us, then stopped to let them mill around, deciding what to do.

Hopefully taking the opportunity to empty their bladders at the same time. Then, as they moved off, we moved in.

There were plenty of places where the elk had pawed down through the snow to try to find a few meager bites of grass.

But that wasn't what we needed to find. We wandered much of the buried meadow...

to find maybe a dozen of these:

Spots where elk had peed.

Yes, our entire morning was dedicated to just finding these pee spots.

To see what color their urine was.

Because if you look at that first picture of the whole herd up there, that fence corner you can see behind the herd on the left side is where this entry occurred.

What we do not want to see today is what we saw four years ago.

Orange urine. A sign the elk would have been ingesting the toxic lichen again.

Fortunately, all pee spots we found were a nice healthy, lemony yellow.

No lichen stains.

By now the herd we shuffled off is spread out feeding again.

Time to go.

With my view much the same as it was coming in.

Only fell off once.

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