Control is pretty simple — most skidoos have an accelerator, operated with your right thumb, and a break operated with the left hand. And they can reach speeds of well over 100kph, if you’re suicidally reckless.

What makes it tricky is that it is really bloody cold. So before even getting on the saddle you have to be wearing specialist thick clothing and a motorbike helmet. Not only does this restrict movement, but the visor on the helmet can become a major problem. Breath out too much and the condensation on the visor will freeze up — rendering you blind to the outside.

So off we went, on a mission to visit the ice fishing hut. Our party was led by Liz’s brother Lawrence, who is essentially the alpha male to my diseased specimen. He’s a mechanic. When we visited him in his garage was working on fixing a snowmobile whilst drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. This was the first time I’d met him, so god knows what he thought when he saw me — a man who can’t do up his big snowmobiling coat without getting Liz to help me.

We set off along one of the fishing trails, which unlike the larger trails operated by the local snowmobile association is not heavily maintained — so within moments we were riding in a single-file column, weaving in and out of trees and over the contours of the land.

Being new to this, I obviously didn’t drive too fast — so as Lawrence and his friend Jamie zipped off into the distance, I was left what felt alone in the wilderness — with only the trail to follow. Mercifully, though it was pretty much closest to being in the middle of nowhere I’ve ever felt, I still got the occasional flicker of light in the rear-view mirror from Liz behind me — confirming that I was still either on the right track, or that we would both die in the wilderness together.

There was the occasional break in the trees — such as when we had to cross a frozen river by going down the banks on one side, crossing the snow-covered ice and climbing up the other side. Perhaps sensing trouble, Lawrence decided to stop and wait for the rest of us at all of the tricky points, so as I caught up to him at the river, I followed his lead. It turns out that this was a mistake.

Whereas Lawrence slid across the previously untouched snow in one quick and fast movement, complete with a little spinning flourish at the end, I instead followed more slowly, and with greater hesitation. Before I knew it — I’d managed to plough my borrowed snowmobile deep into the snow atop the river. And this was a pretty terrifying situation to be in. Would I go through the ice beneath?

The mistake I’d made was not sticking to the beaten path — snow behaves very differently once it has been packed down by repeated traffic. The snow I’d followed Lawrence on to was untouched so was still light, fluffy, and malleable.

As I scrambled to get out of the snow, as a big fat bloke I merely faulted more — sending myself knees first into the deep snow drift, waving my arms helplessly.

As Lawrence pulled out his phone I began to worry even further. Was he calling 911? Was this a big emergency? Would the rescue helicopter be able to reach us in time, or would they merely arrive to retrieve my frozen corpse?

It turns out that he was just taking a photo of me stuck in the snow and uploading it to Facebook.