Adventures with my father

I was 12 years old and madly in love with snowmobiling. We owned a garish yellow Bombardier and a blue and white, already outdated Evinrude. Snowmobiles were not flashy, aerodynamic vessels perched on slick, razor sharp skis back then. Most of them were 18 horsepower, stiff-seated, rustic, rough riding, simplistic machines that reeked of gas fumes and oil. Silver flying snow saucers carrying squealing, screaming kids could easily outrun these snowsleds of yesteryear with very little problem. They were a delightfully dangerous way to enjoy the winter season and I savored every second I spent driving one.
I did not play basketball, baseball, or soccer; as a matter of fact, there was very little about me that could be considered athletic. When I perched myself upon the orange seat of my old Evinrude, however, I displayed the amazing ability of a true “rider.” I knew just when to lean, slow down, increase my speed, get up on my knees, shift my weight, and blaze a trail where no snowmobile had gone before.
I guess it was because of these incredible maneuvers that my father invited me to join him on a Sunday afternoon for a rather challenging ride from the outskirts of Caribou, over the wavy fields of Presque Isle, across the Aroostook River and down to the shores of Hanson Lake. A friend of my dad’s was accompanying us and he assured my father and me that the trail would be a piece of cake; even for an enthusiastic 12-year-old who believed she had found her niche.
I did well on the straightaway. I even crossed the Aroostook River with ease; my Evinrude and I clambering up the steep bank with no hesitation. I remained close to the back of my dad’s Bombardier and when he suddenly disappeared over the ridge surrounding Hanson Lake, I was right behind him with my hands tight on the handlebars, my knees strong beneath me and my eyes straight ahead. Because of the weight of the Evinrude, I found myself passing my dad’s canary yellow sled in no time and I am sure I heard him shout, “Whoah! Slow that thing down.” It goes without saying, however, that I could not for the life of me slow that very determined old snowsled down and that is exactly how the runaway Evinrude, along with its terrified operator, ended up in Hanson Lake.
My father quickly dismounted his Bombardier and moved over the hard-packed snow; stopping just inches from the slushy edge of the lake water. “Bin! Don’t move. Stay put.” My father’s voice sounded broken and distant. He tore off his helmet and threw it to one side, turning to motion to an ominous, bright green, double track Arctic Cat snowmobile that rose up from behind that snow-covered ridge; in bold contrast to the milky, broken sky.
My dad and the driver of the rescue Arctic Cat waded into the water and pulled the Evinrude around to face the back of the Arctic Cat, fastening a dark blue, triple-stranded rope between the two snow machines. “Hold on tight!” My father bellowed. By this time, or course, the Evinrude’s motor was no longer running. I closed my eyes as the Evinrude was pulled forward reluctantly, eventually coming to a smooth and gradual stop.
I got up from the old snowmobile and lowered my helmet-clad head in shame. The driver of the Arctic Cat pulled his own helmet off and whistled. “Wow! That was a close call, Tom. Your girl really bit off a lot more than she could chew. She is too inexperienced to handle that old machine.” My father walked over to me and placed his right hand on my shoulder. He bent toward me and whispered, “Take your helmet off, Binny. Your hair is all wet and you don’t need to get a cold from this.” He straightened up and smiled at the Arctic Cat man. “You know,” my father said, “I don’t think I could have handled that old Evinrude any better than my daughter did. Once you get on the slippery ridge with a heavy machine like hers, all control is pretty much gone to hell in a hand cart. I think she did just fine.”
I recall taking my helmet off and wiping tears from my cheeks with the back of my snowmobile suit sleeve; thankful for my father’s words and marveling at his wisdom. You see, rather than admonish me, my dad chose to support me. It was the right choice.
We would speak of this incident many times over the next 25 years. The conversation would always start out the same: “Dad, do you remember the Evinrude and Hanson Lake?” He would always chuckle just a bit and respond, “You mean the day you nearly drowned us both?” We would laugh together then as a million similar memories came tumbling down around us.
My dad did not sit behind a desk, clad in a three piece suit. He sat behind a truck steering wheel, wearing a suit of green, blue, or brown with the name Dickie on the label. Family vacations were not flights booked with Delta airlines and our destination was never Disney Land or the shores of the Pacific. With Dad’s vacation money tucked safely into our wallets, we climbed into our tomato red Rambler, a fold-up Mobile map flying from the front seat to the back and finally right out of the window somewhere on I-95. Our vacation cuisine consisted of cheeseburgers, fries, and icy cold bottles of Pepsi-Cola. We considered our annual pilgrimage to New Hampshire to be an odyssey of sorts, and my heart will eternally skip a beat when someone mentions the White Mountains or the city of Merrimac. My father’s own childhood was riddled with poverty, instability, and chaos. I am certain he did not attend parenting classes, and his role models were definitely unconventional. Yet, despite everything often working against him, he wrote my mother elaborate love letters from Korea that would rival Byron. He worked seven days per week to ensure that his family acquired the things he could only dream about as a little boy. And when it came to being a father, Thomas Wilson Wilcox was a genius.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor with her husband, Dale, and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble.