Yellowstone in Winter: Sampling America’s Bounty on Bitchin’ Ski-Doo Snowmobiles

A snow machine neophyte attempts to shred the frozen gnar in Roosevelt country—and you can too.

PROLOGUE: I’m on my way to Yellowstone, and my wife is annoyed. I don’t blame her—neither of us has ever been, but now I’m going and she isn’t, and even at some 30,000 feet somewhere over the Rockies, I can feel it.

I kid, of course. Mostly. She is, among many other things, an American history buff and, coincidentally (fatefully?), the biggest (only?) Teddy Roosevelt aficionado you’re likely to meet—a member of the society (yes, there’s a society), and as harsh a judge of mustaches as the men who wear them (I tend to stay clean shaven). In her quiet way, she’s made it clear that her soul is just slightly discomposed at the thought that I, a relative vulgarian, will be taking in sights that TR himself might have.

I’m a victim of circumstance, I explain, just a feather on the breath of God. When Ski-Doo, maker of the only snowmobiles approved for use inside Yellowstone National Park, calls to ask if you’d like to ride said snowmobiles in said park, you simply have no choice. You ask your boss about expensing some long underwear, gather up your courage, and get yourself on a plane to Montana.

Roosevelt, our 26th president, wasn’t the first to recognize Yellowstone’s grandeur—that was, according to my wife, our 18th president, Ulysses S. Grant, who signed the original act of dedication in 1872. But Roosevelt certainly is the one most closely associated with the place in the public imagination, thanks mainly to his historic 1903 visit. During that visit, he spent more than two weeks exploring the area on horseback, recording his observations, and finally dedicating a basalt gateway arch that still serves as the park’s northern entrance before pulling out (probably) on the Elysian, his custom 70-foot railroad car and portable politicking podium.

Whereas Teddy was an experienced horseman—a literal Rough Rider—I have zero experience with the machines to which I’ll entrust my life and livelihood for the next two days. I'm an L.A. boy, born and bred; I’ve seen plenty of surf and sand and pavement but not much of that slippery, frozen white stuff I’m told is called snow—and in snowmobile terms, I wouldn’t know a Talbot-Lago from a trenching machine.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Even this thin-blooded California tenderfoot knows Ski-Doo by reputation. Over the course of nearly 70 years of existence, the brand—whose name apparently originated from a printing error the company’s founder was wise enough to immediately trademark—has become a near-synonym for snow-going vehicles with tracks and skis and handlebars, not unlike a certain facial tissue or adhesive bandage or search engine (the very one I’ve been using to look up all these neato factoids!). Think of a snowmobile, and a Ski-Doo is likely what will come to mind.

These are the circumstances of my arrival in Roosevelt country, the land of geysers, gold, bison, and as I read (thanks, Google!), a bovine bacterium called brucellosis that’s older than Hippocrates. But, hell, I tell myself, it beats sitting in traffic on the 105.

Day One: You Too Can Ski-Doo

The next morning, standing outside the rental building (that’s right, you too can rent a Ski-Doo and reenact my historic expedition!), bundled into maybe more clothing than I’ve ever worn at once, waivers signed, running on four hours sleep and a weird continental breakfast, I’m as ready as I’m going to get.

We’re briefed on snowmobile basics, then I strap on my impressive-looking Ski-Doo Oxygen helmet, connect my helmet heater cable and kill switch tether, and we’re underway. It quickly becomes clear (no pun) that the heated helmet’s defogging features will be critical to my survival—as will the Ski-Doo’s heated throttle lever.

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” –The Trust Buster

A Ski-Doo’s throttle is activated with the right thumb. Problem is, the past couple of years have had me behind a keyboard or a steering wheel more often than a framing hammer, a tool with which I managed to badly strain the ulnar collateral ligament of my right metacarpophalangeal joint the week before—that is, the hinge of my throttle thumb. It hurts. Just a little, but it hurts.

But, hell, I tell myself, it beats sitting in traffic on the 105. Thumb twinge aside, this is fun. We wind through the park in a slow caravan, stopping for a photo op with some bison doing bison things in the Yellowstone River. Even with no basis for comparison, I can already tell that this is an excellent way to see the park—in winter, without the crowds and traffic, out in the open, on a highly capable trail rig, in this case a four-stroke Ski-Doo 900 Ace.

We leave the bison behind and pick up the pace a bit. Despite the somewhat slushy, rough condition of the trails (it has been cold enough for snow to stick, but no new snow has fallen recently), the Ace cuts a sure path along the river and out onto the geyser basin where steaming volcanic springs and more bison and, in the distance, Old Faithful await.

We’re warned that said geyser (named in 1870 by the expedition party led by explorer Nathaniel Langford and Montana Surveyor General Henry Washburn, in case you were wondering) is steamier and less photogenic in the winter air, but that doesn’t stop our group from marveling at it. Rumor has it that at one time folks used the geyser as a kind of washing machine, packing it with dirty clothes and waiting for the eruption, from which they emerged, I guess, clean. Yeah, I could see it.

I’m beat by the time we return to the rental office but properly impressed by the Ace, which has been a joy—powerful, smooth, comfortable to ride all day. I’m a little sad to have left it. I wanted more bonding time.

Although if I’m honest, comfy as it was, all that cruising has taken a toll on my thumb. “Tomorrow might be rough,” I tell my wife on the phone that night, as I submerge said digit in a hotel ice bucket. “Supposed to be a big day.” “Ah, you’ll live,” she says. Clearly, I’m failing to meet the Rooseveltian standard of toughness. I send the bison photos I forgot to send earlier and hit the sack.

Day Two: Learn To Use Your Legs

I get up late, eat my strange continental breakfast with my left hand (thanks for nothing, hotel ice bucket), and hurry to the rally point. Today, we’ve been told, we’re in for a very different experience. First up: putting the new models through their paces.

I start with the Backcountry 600RR, the least powerful but lightest and, I think, liveliest of the bunch. It’s powered by Ski-Doo’s impressive little 600cc Rotax E-Tec engine, a new fuel-injected two-stroke that’s more than equal to the task of spurring the light crossover to pucker-inducing speeds in the straights—though if you feel you need more two-stroke scoot, I can attest that 850cc Rotax-powered MXZ, an out-and-out performance sled, is capable of brutal acceleration.

Whichever you prefer, the Rotax powerplants are as modern as can be, with precise fuel control, significantly reduced oil consumption, and, of course, national park-worthy emissions levels—both noise and byproducts of combustion.

And then there’s the Renegade X-RS, a larger, heavier, somewhat less maneuverable but vastly smoother and quicker machine sporting a 180-hp, 900cc turbocharged four-stroke. If that doesn’t sound like so much power, allow me to put it in perspective: at 540 pounds dry, the Renegade’s power-to-weight ratio is roughly on par with, say, a Bugatti Veyron or a McLaren P1. With a wider track, higher “curb weight,” and Ski-Doo’s active Smart Shox damper system, it’s the grand tourer of this bunch, the one you might choose for exciting yet drama-free long-distance riding.

It’s the second machine I sample and the one I return to when we leave our makeshift dragstrip and hit the trail. The Renegade’s stability and seemingly bottomless well of power inspire confidence—even, perhaps, hubris. Damn, this is fun, I think, right before I enter a curve at speed, bounce off a mogul, torque my sore thumb, lose the throttle, plow, and lay the big 900 over onto a mercifully soft snowbank.

The Ski-Doo’s safety system works perfectly, the kill cable clipped to my snowsuit popping free as I hit the ground, so my pride and ass are only slightly bruised. I mean, certainly this was nothing compared to the infamous 1902 Pittsfield Incident, for instance, that saw President Roosevelt thrown headfirst onto a sidewalk when his barouche was hit by an out-of-control streetcar.

A couple of us roll the Renegade back onto its skis, and I remount it with a renewed sense of purpose and a renewed soreness in my thumb. Still so much better than sitting in traffic on the 105, I tell myself, as I crack my visor so I can feel the icy Montana wind in my teeth, and we press on.

“The farther one gets into the wilderness, the greater is the attraction of its lonely freedom.” –The Hero of San Juan Hill

After lunch, we head back to the rally point, where we meet the final bosses of our snowmobiling adventure: the mountain sleds. It’s clear almost immediately that these things are far more hardcore than the relatively stable, forgiving stuff we’ve been riding to this point. My steed for the afternoon: the Ski-Doo Summit 600 RR Adrenaline.

It is, I’m informed, intended for action off trail, in deep snow. Navigate your first turn on-trail, and you instantly grasp how much narrower, looser, more maneuverable, more aggressive, raw, and specialized they are. You’ve got to get your body into the action to keep the thing in line and to get the full experience, a far cry from the more stable trail-oriented models we’ve ridden to this point. Can you drift a snowmobile? Not really, but also kinda, and if any sleds can get close, it’s these snorty, slinky little beasts.

Thing is, we’ve got a long ride ahead of us to get to the deep snow these mountain sleds do their best work in, and a snowmobile event the week before has turned the frozen trails into mogul city. It’s downright punishing—until I do as the more experienced members of our party are doing and stand up. Ah, that’s the stuff. Now I can skip leg day.

We spend an hour or so whipping the mountain sleds around the backcountry, carving up the powder, attempting advanced maneuvers, not crashing (!), and generally having a grand old time. It takes another hour returning to base, and then, just like that, our tour is concluded. I may not be a Rough Rider, exactly, but I do feel a little like I’ve just charged San Juan Hill. My legs and core are mincemeat, and my company-owned underthings are drenched in sweat, but good lord, do I feel alive. Time for a steak and some sort of huckleberry-flavored cocktail.

CODA: Before I know it, I’m home, worse for wear but also, somehow, refreshed. I’ve learned why Ski-Doos rule. Granted, I have no basis for comparison, but that won’t stop me from telling my wife (and whoever else will listen) that these things are the bee’s knees, sure to please, the best things on skis.

I tell her this as she eats some of the huckleberry chocolate I bought her at the Bozeman airport (a clever calculation on my part, if I do say so myself) while lying flat on my back, the rest of my body now just as sore as my poor thumb, and also sick as a dog from whatever I’ve picked up (not brucellosis, I’m fairly certain). “We’ll go,” I tell her, “if I live.” “Ah, you’ll live,” she says. “We’ll go.”

“Life is a great adventure … accept it in such a spirit.” –TR

And that’s my advice to you, too: Go. Yellowstone is as good as they say, so do as Teddy and I have done. Get out there and enjoy our nation’s inheritance, preferably in winter, and preferably on a Ski-Doo, so you too can look like this: