Park City, Utah in Winter: Toyota Throws a Snow-Driving Experience and I Live to Tell About It

All ready for a day of snow adventures.

I'm not the kind of guy who looks death in the face and laughs. There was a time when I was more adventurous. You know, when I thought I was bulletproof. Those days are long gone. No more do I long to jump out of a perfectly good airplane simply for the adrenaline rush. The group of fraternity brothers that I join every year or two on a trip somewhere have pretty much decided we will return to Eatons' Ranch in Wyoming this September. This will be my 11^th visit there. I, along with one or two other brothers, announced that we will attend, but won't be climbing aboard a horse this year. As anyone who rides with any regularity will tell you, it's not a matter of if the day will come when your noble steed tosses you to the ground, it's a matter of when that day will be. Having never been thrown, the odds aren't with me. Nope. Not going to do it.

Actually, if I knew the outcome of doing something dangerous was either coming out the other side unmolested or being killed, I would be more inclined to do it. At this point, I'm on the downhill slide of my life. I've lived a rich, fun-filled run. I wouldn't change much of anything. My fear isn't termination, it's being maimed doing something silly. I'm old. I don't mend nearly as quickly and easily as I used to. Not to mention, there are those injuries from which you literally don't walk away. You may still be breathing and your heart still beating, but that's about it. So, I've opted to sit on my cabin's porch, sip some bourbon and read a few chapters of whichever book I happen to have with me as most of my brothers ride off into the Wyoming mountains. Godspeed, boys.

For nearly 15 years I've followed the advice of Sir Richard Branson: Life is more fun when you say, yes, than when you say, no. I still do, to a certain extent. Adhering to those sage words provided the opportunity for having some great times. But, now I usually draw the line at things that just seem a little nuts. “Usually” being the operative word.

In mid February, Toyota invited me to a snow-driving event in Park City, Utah. It served as host of the 2002 Olympic Winter Games, and for good reason: There's always plenty of snow. More of a boondoggle than anything else, this event did provide the attending media the opportunity to pilot its sedans and car-based crossovers armed with all-wheel drive on a rather challenging snow course.

2021 Toyota Avalon AWD.

The stars of the show were the 2020 Toyota Camry AWD and 2021 Toyota Avalon AWD. Camry hasn't offered AWD since 1991, and 2021 will be the first-ever AWD Avalon. As other carmakers are abandoning sedans, Toyota is working to give more folks a reason to buy a sedan. Because of the widespread use of the Toyota New Global Architecture across a variety of models, Toyota was able to swipe the engine, transmission, transfer case, rear differential and some other underpinnings from the AWD RAV4, dropping them into the Camry and Avalon. The result is two surprisingly competent AWD sedans.

Toyota had me driving these AWD machines on the snow course, as well as paved roads on the first day. The second day Toyota offered a number of snow-related activities in which we could participate. I checked the box next to snowmobiling. Somewhere between making my pick and arriving at the Montage Resort in Park City, my name was also added to the list for the bobsled run. Neither of these events seems well suited to someone who has become a bit squeamish about his fragile health in his advancing years. But, nothing ventured nothing gained, right? Er, right.

All dressed up in snowmobiling gear.

Snowmobiling was my morning event. Toyota packed six or seven us into a van and we headed off the resort property to some snowmobiling vendor. There are several in Park City. There we dismounted, signed the usual “don't sue us” form and donned vendor-provided snowsuits, helmets and boots. Then we loaded into one of the vendor's vans for the ride to the trailhead. The vendor blended a young family with two little kids, as well as two older ladies from parts unknown into our merry little band.

Our snowmobiling group taking a break. Where's Waldo?

After a brief tutorial on snowmobile operation by one of the two guides tasked with overseeing our adventure, we chose a machine, climbed aboard and followed nose to tail, single file a mile or two to what the guides called “the meadow.” From the moment we cranked up our machines, one of the small children began wailing, which commenced and terminated with the ignition on the snowmobile on which he was riding being engaged and switched off. The kid's bawling was like a GPS: We always knew where that particular snowmobile was. We stopped at the top of a steep hill and climbed off our machines to get another tutorial on what the next 45 minutes would bring. Basically, we were turned loose.

Although this area is called the meadow, it's composed of some flat land, woods and hills. The biggest hill was the one on which we were standing. It was so steep, you couldn't see the bottom until you were over its crest. Then it was like the big summit at Cedar Point's Top Thrill Dragster roller coaster. So, for roughly 45 minutes we went as fast as we wanted on, what was basically, a closed course. During our initial instruction, we were told that if we lost control and the machine wound up on its side, to keep our feet locked into the footholds and not try to use our legs to keep from going over. I found this to be handy advice as my machine went over after taking a corner a bit too fast.

We had been out for about two hours when we returned to our starting point where we turned in our gear, hopped in a van and headed to the resort.

Around 2:30, nine of us loaded into a van bound for Park City's Olympic Park and the bobsled run. Upon our arrival, we again signed the appropriate paperwork, this time at a computer kiosk. We also had to answer a few health questions. Then for the third time in this process, someone droned on about all the physical ailments that would disqualify us from the ride. Heart issues, back issues, neck issues and on and on and on. I doubt the list would have been any longer had we been there to be shot out of a cannon or to have a heart valve replaced.

We were in the staging building for about 90 minutes as we were signed in, questioned, tutored, helmeted and so forth. Some of the downtime was spent simply strolling around the Olympic exhibits on display. Finally, came the moment to mount up. Because Toyota arranged this event (And, obviously I'm too much of a slacker to research it.), I don't know how many times a day Olympic Park offers this experience. I suspect only two or three times. The course must be groomed and repaired at the start of every day. As with our snowmobiling adventure, we shared this one with a number of civilians unrelated to our group.

Also because Toyota arranged this for us, as well as another wave of media the following day, our group was pushed to the front of the line. Each bobsled group consisted of an experienced pilot and three of us. I was part of the first three of our group that probably numbered 18 or 20 people in total. There was a group finishing up ahead of us and we queued up waiting for the next sled to roll over the finish line. Yes, this is the same bobsled course that hosted the 2002 Olympic competition. For safety's sake, we weren't going to run alongside the sled pushing it and then jumping in; nor were we going to experience the entire course, which would have propelled us to roughly 90 mph. For the public experience, they utilize about half the course.

I can't imagine the practice and athleticism required to push one of these sleds and then jump in. We were packed in this thing, spooning the person in front and behind. When we finally got to the point to situate ourselves in a stationary sled, getting the three of us lined up behind the driver took three or four minutes. There are metal handholds attached to the floor that we grabbed once seated. That's good because there isn't a back on a bobsled. Before actually being seated in this contraption, I had visions of us popping out the back one by one like candies from a Pez dispenser. Once seated, however, it became clear that only the Jaws of Life could sufficiently free one of us to bounce out the rear.

In the back of the truck awaiting the trip to the top of the run.

Getting a bobsled and its crew to the top of the run is an ordeal in itself. With only two sleds in operation, one is always being carted back up the course as the other is racing down it. Once the sled is stopped and unloaded of its shell-shocked passengers at the bottom, two attendants drag it off the track and place it on ski-like runners. They then maneuver it into the back of what looks like a midsize U-haul truck that is also fitted with a bench seat along one wall for the passengers. Once loaded with sled and passengers, the truck is driven to the staging area where the operation is reversed. This, folks, is how they do it at the Olympics, too: Sled and team are transported to the starting point in the back of a truck.

Once situated in the sled, the pilot reminded us how to position ourselves throughout the ride. We were to sit upright with our shoulders hiked up as far as possible, as if frozen in mid shrug. Our helmets, he added, would protect our noggins and the mid-shrug thing our necks. Oh boy...

Cheated death once again.

I have no clue who the first person was who thought racing down a twisty ice track in, what amounts to, a fiberglass canoe was a good idea; they must have had a screw loose. But, of course, what does that say about me? The entire ordeal occupied a mere 48 seconds with a top speed of just under 65 mph. That section of the course contains 10 turns, which means 10 times we were somewhat perpendicular to the floor of the track. It was zero to sheer terror in about five seconds flat. But what a rush. My buddy Javier Mota had a camera attached to the front of our sled. You can watch the video he posted to his YouTube channel here.

At the finish, extricating ourselves from the sled proved a bigger challenge than getting into it. Slowing my heart rate to something close to normal probably required four or five minutes. Simply, it was an almost unbelievable experience. Sir Richard Branson, you magnificent bastard!