Ely's Earliest Snowmobiles

This article originally appeared in the 2007-2008 edition of the Ely Winter Times. Mike Hillman’s historically-based stories about Ely and its people were a popular and lively part of the Times, and they’ve been missed since his death in December 2014.

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The day of Trout-A-Rama, Burntside Lake was filled with trucks and cars, and the ice on the lake had more holes in it than a slice of Swiss cheese. About one o'clock that afternoon, a truck pulled into Kaleva Bay, and behind it was a trailer covered by a great green canvas tarp. A group of men from the fishing contest helped the driver remove the tarp, revealing the very airboat of their dreams. The machine looked like a small, flat-bottomed fishing boat, except that this old boat had an airplane propeller mounted on the back.

I will always remember the first time I saw a snow machine. It was at one of the Trout-A-Rama fishing contests when I was a boy. Every winter there would be two fishing contests. The first took place on Shagawa Lake as part of the annual Winter Carnival; the second happened later in the winter and was held on Burntside Lake.

A Winter Carnival on Shagawa, out from Semer's Park

Fishing contests were great fun for the town. The winters back then were much longer and colder than they are now. The snow was deeper, and there were weeks on end when the temperature didn't make it above zero. Most of the country was beyond reach, streets in town grew narrow with snow, and everything seemed to press in on us.

That winter, rumors abounded in the area coffee shops about a strange airboat that skimmed through the Everglades in Florida, easily crossing land and water with good speed. There wasn't anything that this airboat couldn't go over. Anglers, who dreamed of getting back to the same lakes they fished in the liquid season, had visions of trophy fish dancing in their heads as they saw themselves sitting in an air boat, whisking over the snow and ice, heading north to the promised land. It was a great winter for dreams.

That was why things like the Winter Carnival and Trout-A-Rama were so important to the mental health of the town. We needed a way to get people out of their houses in the winter or attacks of cabin fever, which happen to some degree every winter, would grow to epidemic proportions.

And that also was why there was so much talk about a snow machine coming to that long ago Trout-A-Rama. It gave people the hope that maybe there was something to break winter's hold on the country, and dozens of skeptical people were there to witness this great event.

Hundreds of curious spectators crowded around the airboat, forming a great horseshoe of people eager to watch the launching. I can still hear the roar of the engine as we watched the pilot throw the switch to start the propeller spinning. All of a sudden the world was lost in a blizzard, and for a few moments everyone was blinded by the snow. Then, gradually, the air started to clear, and people looked toward the far horizon, expecting to see the airboat gliding across the frozen lake, but the only thing out there was winter.

The airboat hadn't budged more than a few inches. It worked well in the liquid swamps, but was nothing but a big bag of wind in a northern winter. It was all blow and no go.

A year later, someone came to the Trout-A-Rama contest with a doubletrack machine that looked much like today's trail groomers. He demonstrated his invention to the dubious group of anglers who clearly remembered the airboat debacle of the year before. They were impressed, but this vehicle cost a small fortune, and it was much too wide to go across the portages.

It didn't take long for garage mechanics in places like Minnesota and French Canada to take the lessons learned from these initial failures and build a machine that would meet the demands of the winter landscape. These modern Edisons came out with a practical design that sported a pair of fat skis in front, a small motor for power (built for the slow and steady), a pair of handlebars to guide the skis, and a circular rubberized single track that pushed the machine over the snow.

Soon names like Polaris, Arctic Cat, and Ski Doo entered into conversations at coffee counters all over town, and men would come in for a quick cup of coffee wearing military flight suits. There was no ideal clothing to go along with the new industry, and the people who rode snow machines during those pioneer years quickly realized that the old wool clothing, which had served them well in the past, just wasn't warm enough when they were creating their own wind on a snow sled. The only place they could find clothing and foot gear up to the task was the military, so people in cumbersome, silver-colored flight suits was a common—and often hilarious—sight.

Soon people were making their own portable fishing shelters. Old kerosene stoves were cut down to size to provide heat in these homemade canvas shelters. There was no such thing as store-bought when it came to this brand new industry of the late 50s and early 60s. Around Ely, many homemade sleds were built to hitch to the snow machine and then load with all the extra things needed to make winter fishing a comfortable and enjoyable experience.

In the beginning, two kinds of snow machines were developed: a larger and heavier sled, made by companies like Polaris and Arctic Cat, and the small sled called Ski Doo that was made in French Canada.

Many of the summer fishing partnerships now expanded to take in the winter season. Often one of the partners purchased the big beast while the other invested in the smaller sled. The small sleds would break the trail, and the bigger sleds would follow in the same track. It was ill-advised for riders to venture out on their own, especially in one of the bigger and heavier machines, because there was the chance of hitting pockets of slush—the wet, heavy layer between solid ice and surface snow formed by water pushing up through cracks in the ice. Slush never seems to freeze, even in the coldest weather. There was always an element of danger involved in the early days of snow machines. You never knew if you were going to make it there and back again without breaking down. So most of the people who went traveled in teams.

If it weren't for the slush, I might not have been added to the winter fishing team, but when those old machines went down in a pocket of slush, a lot of help was needed to get out of what could be a terrible situation. I remember standing there in my white felt bunny boots, with bread bags for liners over an inner layer of heavy socks in an effort to keep my feet kind of warm and dry. No matter how many plastic bags I wore, the cold water always found its way in. I was a good sized boy then, bigger than my dad, so I held up the back end of the machine to keep the track out of the slush. Johnny, the engineer, kept the track turning, and Joe, Dad, and I grunted and groaned as we pushed that cumbersome bucket of bolts through the pocket of slush. We had to keep the track moving or it would freeze solid, and then we were in a world of hurt: dragging this huge, frozen chunk of steel, rubber, and ice towards the closest shore in order to build a fire to melt the ice off the machine and get back into motion.

Snowmobiling in its early days was all about winter fishing. Once, when we were all set up to fish but the trout were busy doing something else, I asked my dad if I could take the machine for a ride around the lake. He looked at me in a very surprised way and told me that these machines were made to get people from the landing where the trip started to the fishing ground and back again. They weren't made for joy riding, they were made for a purpose, and that purpose was winter fishing.

Possibly a Trout-A-Rama? Anyone with info about this photo please contact us.

The anglers all knew each other back then, and just like in the open-water season, they had divided up the country amongst themselves. The snow sleds were unloaded and moved down into a long line that formed in front of the landing. When everyone was ready, the lead machine would head out, and the rest of the troops would follow. There was something about it that almost looked like a group of old crusaders marching to a holy cause – winter fishing.

I remember humming the old hymn “Onward Christian Soldiers” as we headed off one especially cold morning: "Onward northern anglers, onward through the snow | Marching off to winter fish where none have dared to go, | Now the royal Arctic Cat leads against the foe, |Onward on Polaris, see those Ski Doos roll..."

As the caravan headed up the Moose Lake Chain, small groups headed off in different directions. Some went toward Basswood, some toward Knife Lake, and we headed to the far end of Carp Lake to fish for trout. Walleye could be found closer to home. When we went north to the border country, we were fishing for trout. Joe and I fished outside, but when we got cold, we went into Johnny's or Dad's shelter to warm up around the cutdown kerosene stove.

Once, one of the regulars bought a brand new make of snowmobile. The other veterans soon dubbed it the Ski Don't. One brilliantly cold morning, everyone was waiting for the Ski Don't to finally fire up, and the men were teasing the owner of what was best described as a useless piece of junk just waiting to break down. Someone suggested they get Father Mike to sprinkle some holy water on it, because the Ski Don't needed all the blessings it could get. At the end of the day everyone headed back on the same trail they went out on, and usually the caravan would reassemble for the trip home. Everyone was back at Moose Lake landing, with the exception of the Ski Don't, and the talk turned to the whereabouts of the group's black sheep and what they were going to do.

The sun was gone and the last light was going from the west. The stars were popping out all over the cold blue-black sky, and the country was booming as the lake made more ice. We all moved to the shore and looked down the darkening lake. There was talk of sending out a rescue party when someone spotted a faint light off in the distance. At first we thought it was another star, but gradually the light got brighter as the Ski Don't made its way slowly toward the landing. Someone commented that it was hard to imagine something with an engine could move that slowly. Another person laughed and said it looked like he was racing the island in front of the scout base. Someone else said he’d bet on the island, and the entire group roared with merriment.

Finally, just before the world's slowest snow machine arrived back home, the men went back to their cars. Some got in their trucks and left, but we waited until Bobby pulled up to his truck and started the engine. He was wearing a ski mask all rimmed with frost, and you could see he was tired and cold. After the truck was running, and we knew he had heat, Dad and I headed over to help him load his machine. Dad asked if it had been one of those days, and Bobby answered by saying it was one of the worst days of his life. Then he thanked us for waiting, got into his truck and drove home.

The world has changed a lot since those early days when a few anglers got together and decided to challenge winter by building a machine tough enough to handle the cold and snow. Now, the country seems bigger in the winter, and things don't press in on the town like they did when I was a boy.

Some of that is due to those intrepid people who dreamed a dream and dared to see it through to fruition.

A precursor to today's Water Cross.

and lively part of the Times, and they’ve been missed since his death in December 2014. So we’ll be including some (perhaps condensed) in future issues.

This article originally appeared in the 2007-8 edition of the Ely Winter Times. Mike Hillman’s historically-based stories about Ely and its people were a popular