I tell people that I grew up on the back of a snowmobile.  It's not far from the truth, in my book.  My grandfather had them and when I was very young (age 1 or so, I think) my family would do their best make me look like the Michelin Man (I know I know, I look more like him now than I did then, but stay with me here) and I'd ride with my Dad or Grandfather. When I was a teenager Grandpa's snowmobiles were handed down to my Dad, and we continued to go throughout the winter.  Over the years, Dad bought newer machines and we went from two to four and we could go with larger groups. I have great memories of snowmobiling in many of the gorgeous snow covered mountains of Northern Utah.  When the valley was completely covered under the inversion Dad and I would load up the machines and head for the mountains.  We'd climb the mountain for most of the morning and find a nice big area to stop an eat lunch.  The sky was always clear and blue.  We'd kick back on the machines and on occasion take a nap.  It was usually so warm that we'd have to unzip our jackets, or take them off completely.  After a while we'd run the machines all over the top of the mountain and towards the end of the afternoon we'd head back for the truck. Dad was even daring enough to allow me to take them out with a few friends by myself.  I'm sure that he quadrupled his insurance during those outings and I wouldn't have blamed him.  Life (and age) started to get in the way and we didn't go as much over the years, so in the last few years Dad sold the four machines and trailer.  I do however have every intention of purchasing some for myself in the next few years. That's why when I hear of stories like this one it absolutely breaks my heart.