rewind buying a yellow cat

For fans of old snowmobiles, nothing compares to unearthing an old Rupp or Brut in a barn or tree line. The feeling compares to a stamp collector finding that one with the upside down plane or to a guitar player opening an old case to unveil a vintage Stratocaster. A mix of euphoria and anxious desire that makes you feel all is right with the world.

I vividly recall the phone conversation, "there's an old sled you might be interested in up in Oslo, Minnesota," my friend said. At 16, I was engaged in the lofty entrepreneurial pursuit of parting out old sleds and selling the appendages to interested buyers. So, calls like this weren't uncommon. I pressed in futility for more info on the relic, but my informant wasn't exactly snowmobile savvy. All my interrogation could reveal was the color, yellow, and that it was behind a house along the river dike.

Sled of a wrong color
Yellow meant, presumably, that it was a Ski-Doo and being a dime a dozen, they weren't exactly what I was into collecting at the time. Besides, nothing against the blond Bombers, but growing up near northwestern Minn., I had an in-bred alliance to Arctic Cat, Polaris and Scorpion.

But I was a hopeless salvage lord and kept nearly everything I acquired.

Then one day, as most high school students with changing priorities do, I dumped the sled salvage job and sold my whole collection to a yard for $200 so I could buy a new amplifier for my garage band. It makes me queasy to think of the sleds that were in that pile: a '71 Scorpion Super Stinger, Arctic Cat Panthers and Pumas of all varieties. The list isn't long, but a vintage racer's dream.

However, anticipating summertime boredom and still having the itch to leave no sled unturned, I jumped in my '78 Ford pickup to make the 20-mile journey to Oslo, a little town nestled on the banks of the mighty Red River just across an old steel truss bridge.

I turned left up the first street across the bridge. With no address, I stalked the tree-canopied lane, scanning the yards along the river. The neighborhood looked like something out of a travel book. A place that you might see kids playing baseball in the street or a dog curled up on an open front porch.

I spotted a huge, 2-story house of late 1800s vintage that fit the general description given to me by my friend and did a painfully deliberate drive-by. Because of the slope to the river, I couldn't see the whole backyard, so I proceeded up the street, made a U-turn and drifted by again. This time I spotted the machine next to a shed. It looked like the last yellow jellybean in the bottom of an Easter basket, with brilliant green quack grass surrounding it like the setting of a diamond.

I knocked on the house's screen door. The main door was ajar and I could hear squeaking of hardwood floors as the occupant approached. A friendly older gentleman who looked to be in his late 70s greeted me.

At 16 and not being adept at small talk, I got right to the point. "Are you looking to get rid of that old snowmobile out back?" In typical Minn./N.D. deliberation he responded, "I've never really thought about it, but I suppose I might." Not too heavy on commitment, but open to discussion nonetheless.

Camouflaged Cat
As we descended the backyard's modest grade, I could tell right away that something was amiss. The creature in the tall grass was definitely yellow, but I had honed my skills enough to know that this wasn't a Ski-Doo. As we grew closer I started to make out the hood shape as being something familiar to me. I doubted my own eyes as I realized that this was a mid-'60s Arctic Cat.

What motivates some people to undertake certain modifications is beyond me. All of the triangular polar bear Arctic Cat decals had been poorly taped off and some misguided soul proceeded to paint this registry of snowmobile history canary yellow. To add insult to injury, the paint was applied with a roller, of all things.

I think the cartoon bubbles started in my head almost immediately. I pictured a sullen, belligerent teenager on Christmas morning having to "settle" for an Arctic Cat when all he wanted was a new yellow Ski-Doo Olympique. So, Dad, in a valiant effort to right the ship, cracked open a gallon of Benjamin Moore Regal Semi Gloss and gave it the coat of an impostor. Unfortunately, with regard to the yellow hue, I was never able to get to the bottom of "why?"

After locating the serial number, I confirmed it was a genuine 1965 Arctic Cat Model 120D. The engine had been looted, but aside from that, the 120D was surprisingly intact.

The two of us, the young long-haired teenager and the old gentleman, shook hands over the then significant, but now laughable, sum of $25. I was so drunk with excitement and anticipation that I cannot recall how the thing came to rest in my truck.

I still have the yellow 120D sitting, stored inside, in the exact condition as the day I picked it up. In fact, there are probably still remnants of Oslo quack grass wrapped around the steel track. I'll get around to fixing it up someday, but in the meantime I've learned: don't judge a sled by its color.

Tom Clement was born and raised in Grand Forks, N.D., and has been involved in snowmobiling for 30 years as an enthusiast, dealer, would-be collector and observer. Besides being a college business instructor and writer, he enjoys spending time with his family, that is, when he's not finding innovative excuses to go riding.