(FORTUNE Magazine) – One day it snowed on Graceland, and Elvis had snowmobiles delivered so that he and his boys could bomb around the Memphis hills. It hardly ever snowed again, so eventually the King had the snowmobiles' skis replaced with little wheels so that he and his boys could bomb around anyway.

Today Elvis's snowmobiles make a funny sight, parked next to his Cadillacs. But they are perfectly appropriate, in a sociopoliticocultural kind of way. If Elvis had lived in the North, what do you think his winter sport would have been? Snowshoeing?

By now it makes no more sense to argue about whether snowmobiles are good or bad than it does to argue about the King's talent--some things are simply forever. In fact, since Elvis's day, snowmobiling has noisily accelerated into a $5 billion industry in North America, with 1.8 million registered sleds (as they're called), over three million riders, and 220,000 miles of groomed trails. Signs of the sport's success are everywhere: "Snowmobiling...is breathing new life into areas of the northern U.S. that were formerly depressed--and depressing," says the Wall Street Journal. "There's serious money being spent on this sport," says the New York Times. "Six sleds in a family is not uncommon."

Clinically attracted to the effects of adrenaline, I headed to Valcourt, Quebec, the birthplace of the modern snowmobile. Valcourt is headquarters of Ski-Doo, the No. 2 (and closing in on Polaris, the No. 1) snowmobile manufacturer, hell-bent on technological innovation, hair-raising performance, and lots of creature comforts. Ski-Doo's parent is transportation giant Bombardier, maker of Sea-Doo watercraft, France's high-speed TGV trains, Chunnel transporters, Learjets; these voyageurs are tres serieux about their vitesse. In fact, Ski-Doo's flagship model--the 800-cc, three-cylinder, $9,000 Mach Z--is the nastiest snow hog of them all and the reason for my visit. Executives whisper that it's capable of zero to 60 in under three seconds (!), acceleration my favorite cars can't touch. My kind of stallion.

I awoke on a sunny, frigid Quebec February morning ready for my maiden voyage. From hotel to trailhead, I traveled through a strange new world where there were more sleds than cars on the roads. The people piloting them looked like Day-Glo Michelin Men in their bulky snowsuits. Before long I blended in perfectly: head to toe black-on-yellow-on-checkerboard that made me look twice my normal size. A small army joined me--company executives, heads of snowmobiling associations, and assorted friends--all similarly attired. Sartorial misery loves company.

With nary a warning beyond "it's kind of like riding a motorcycle--just lean," I threw my leg over one of the 583-cc Formula Z sleds (a $6,200 "family" model, really, but everyone needs a little warm-up), grabbed the heated handgrips, and revved up the engine. Because of Ski-Doo's automatic clutch, I had to hit a healthy 4,500 rpm before the sled gracefully slid into motion. I followed several yards behind our guide, feeling the machine's smooth ride, quick disc brakes, and eagerness in corners. We picked up speed, and hey, I was all right at this! After 15 minutes we swapped machines so I could test-drive the 670-cc MX Z ($6,800)--a much more aggressive yet agile animal. Immediately I felt its torque-iness, the hyper-responsive handling ("It's the BMW M3 of snowmobiles," noted one companion). As we went faster, it became harder and harder to determine the leader's distance ahead of me, thanks to the glimmering rooster tail of snow kicked up by his sled. Crystals clung to my helmet visor, and the world took on a surreal sparkle. I was really getting into the rhythm--swoosh, zoom, swoosh.

I didn't mean to hit the tree. In fact, the sweeping uphill turn seemed rather benign. As I entered it, I dutifully leaned into the corner, vaguely imagining I was achieving the graceful tilt of a motorcycle. Nope--my flimsy arc was taking me straight into a fir tree. With a crack, the left ski kissed the trunk, and I bounced neatly onto the trail (the puffy suit helped). A horrified mini-crowd gathered round, trying to reattach the front suspension (rope was eventually employed) and giving advice ("You really needed much more body English"). I wanted to yell, "Why didn't you just say that I had to actually hang my butt completely off the seat?"

Instead I remounted, and we took off again. Despite my bumps and bangs, something remarkable began occurring: I was howling along at a clip I promised not to report, across gorgeous sun-dazzled snow-covered fields, under silver branches, through otherwise peaceful groves. It was less like motorcycling than like downhill skiing, but with a lot of extra punch, roar--and no sore shins. With lots of power, a frosted landscape, the nip of winter in my lungs, and the steady buzz of an engine, I was in heaven. I suddenly understood the very thing the sport's detractors fear: How divine it would be to plow up the side of a mountain and, toute seule, surf virgin powder to my heart's content. The wildlife? This is the wild life!

The transition from my hard-won bliss to the ne plus ultra--the three-cylinder Mach Z--sobered me right up. When I straddled its Harley-esque 586-pound girth, I realized the rest had been kid's play. I squeezed the gas with my now sore right thumb and took off. The front end reared up like an overpowered speedboat's, and the cry of its Rotax power plant was deep, soulful, and terrifying. I knew I wouldn't begin to find the limits of its strength on a regular trail, and after a few speed-induced whiplashes, I gave up trying to push it; it was pushing me. My hosts looked relieved when I parked. Later I heard what the professional racers say about the Mach Z: "It's not fast, it's too *#@%ing fast." How nicely put. For nimbleness (and longevity), I'll stick to the MX Z.

So who rides these things? The entire population of Valcourt, certainly. For the rest of the demographic pie, Ski-Doo has developed a detailed system for understanding its myriad market niches. In the design studio, Ski-Doo's savvy staff had hung huge composite posters of the typical consumer most likely to own each model. First in line was the muscle group, with photos of Mach Z owners, the vehicles they drive (and the ones they lust for), their houses, hobbies, musical tastes--a complete psychological profile. "We know they are very macho and concerned about image, but they want their machines to be 'sleepers,'" says vice president of product design Denys Lapointe, sounding like a shrink. "The grand touring folks want elegance, sophistication, and comfort. And the cross-country guys, who ride the MX Z, are showoffs who like to impress people--and wear the brightest colors." Let's guess which model Elvis would order.

REPORTER ASSOCIATE Joyce E. Davis