Jay Quinlan's Sister, Jennifer Benda, Here is what She wrote:

My husband and I fired up our snowachines and went for a ride a few days
ago. There was a reprieve from the 80-mile an hour gusts we'd all been
suffering through. It was a beautiful crisp winter day; the brilliant blue
sky was in sharp contrast to the jagged white peaks of the Chugach. I
hadn't fired up my sled since my mother's death a year ago. Mom and I
bought matching Ski Doo MXZx sleds a few years back and loved riding
from my back yard. We'd cut through fields of powder in the gravel pits along
dump road and zip down the groomed El Petco trail. She loved to ride,
and I loved to share that with her.

Her sled sits in an enclosed trailer in my front yard. My husband fired
it up in the fall to move it, and the sound of the 2-stroke engine
rumbling, wanting to tear through the powder, crushed me. I ran my
fingers across the bright yellow cowling, looking at the collection of stickers
she had proudly placed on every available empty space. The sponsors
of my brother's career as a professional rider all had a place of respect on
mom's sled.

As Scott and I left the yard on our trail, I felt the familiar
thrill of riding; the rumble of the engine and the chill of the air that creeps in
through the helmet vents. We wound through the twist and turns on the
trails and I stood through the whoops. Gaining speed, I felt in
control of my sled. The trail took us up Hogback, down the backside and across the
river bed. Soon we were in the powder fields mom and I loved to play
in. I killed the throttle and watched Scott play. He would ride up the steep
side of the dug out gravel pits and come racing down. My daughter called
it "rainbows."

I closed my eyes and looked into the sun. An orange glow illuminated
the back of my lids and my mom's laughter echoed in the distance. I could
see her, sitting on her sled in her Red Ski Doo jacket and black helmet. We
were racing, side-by-side, cutting through the powder. I cut in too
close and we almost crashed into each other. We killed our sleds and started
laughing again, taking off our helmets and looking into the sun. It was
the same type of blue bird day with rays of golden sunlight cutting
through the snow crystals hanging gently in the frozen air.

I sit up and pull on the cord to start my sled. It rumbles to life
as Mom whispers, "Lets go, Jen" and I feel her arms tighten around my waist. I
take off, zipping back and forth, making rainbows in the hillside and
cutting through the untracked snow. Mom hangs on tight, hugging
gently as I push on the throttle. I ride and ride, finally meeting up with
Scott and falling in behind him as he leads the way back home through the river
bed. I am at peace, overwhelmed with a calm that I hadn't felt since before
mom's illness. I never dreamt that I would get to sled with her
again, but I know she was with me on that ride. Her voice, her arms around me, all
felt so real.  

Thanks for the ride, mom. I love you!