Hey. So my snowblower tried to kill me last winter.

Not during the storm, no. It waited. It bided its time. I’d spent all season yanking its cord, trusting it to chew through ice and snow, and we had an understanding. Then spring came. I rolled it into the garage, patted it on the chute like “Good job, buddy,” and threw a tarp over it. See you next year.

Big mistake.

First snowfall in December, I’m feeling good. I’m ready. I pull the tarp off. A family of spiders had turned the engine into a high-rise apartment. I brush them off, no big deal. I prime it. I set the choke. I give the starter rope a confident pull.

Nothing.

I pull again. A sad, wheezy sound comes out, like an old man clearing his throat. I pull ten more times. My shoulder starts screaming. My good mood is gone. I’m sweating in my winter coat, staring at this red hunk of metal that has betrayed me. The snow is piling up. My neighbor is already done with his driveway. I can hear the smooth roar of his machine. It’s taunting me.

I finally had to call my uncle, who fixes small engines in his retirement. He shows up, takes one look. “You left the old gas in it, didn’t you?” He didn’t even have to ask. He just knew. “It turns to varnish. Like shellac. It gums up everything inside.”

He fixed it, but he charged me a six-pack and my dignity. I had to stand there and listen to him explain, slowly, what I should have done. I felt like a kid who failed Shop Class.

So this? This guide? It’s me paying it forward so you don’t have to stand in your freezing garage getting a lecture from a relative. This is the stuff that actually works, told by someone who learned the hard way.

Stop the Gas from Going Bad

That fuel in the tank? It’s not just old in a few months. It’s toxic. It turns into this sticky, amber gunk that coats the inside of your carburetor—which is basically the heart of the engine. Think of pouring maple syrup into the gas tank. That’s what happens.

Here’s the fix, and it’s stupid simple:

1. Go to the hardware store. Buy a bottle of fuel stabilizer. It’s by the registers. It costs less than a fancy coffee.
2. Pour some into the gas tank. Then, top off the tank with fresh gas. Not the stuff that’s been in your gas can since October. Fresh.
3. Start the engine. Let it run for five minutes. Don’t just let it idle—engage the auger for a few seconds, turn the chute. You want that treated gas to get everywhere.
4. This is the key part: Turn the fuel valve to OFF. Let the engine run until it sputters, gasps, and dies. It’ll take a minute. This means the treated gas has run through the system and the carburetor is now empty. It’s preserved, but dry. No old gas left to turn to glue.

Do that, and you’ve just saved yourself 95% of the “why won’t you start?!” panic.

Give It a Shower. Seriously

You wouldn’t go to bed covered in mud and salt. Don’t make your machine do it. All that caked-on garbage from the winter is corrosive. It holds moisture against the metal all summer long. Rust never sleeps.

Wait for a warm-ish day. Wheel it outside. Hit it with the hose. Get underneath. Blast the salt out of the auger housing. You’re not detailing a car; you’re just preventing slow, cancerous rot. While you’re doing this, look at the scraper blade at the bottom. Is it worn down to a nub? Is the rubber on the auger torn? Now’s the time to make a mental note. Order the part in July. Not at 7 PM on a Sunday in a snowstorm.

The 60-Second Tune-Up

• Lube the moving bits. The lever that turns the chute left and right? The auger engage? Hit the pivot points with a shot of WD-40 or similar. It keeps them from freezing up solid.
• Yank the spark plug wire off. Wrap the end in a bit of tape so it doesn’t touch the metal engine. This makes it impossible to start accidentally, which is a safety thing. It also makes you feel like you did a real mechanic thing.

Now, The Million-Dollar Question: Where Does It Live?

This was my real problem. My garage is a museum of bad decisions and half-finished projects. Storing the snowblower meant it became a permanent, immovable monument in the middle of the floor. I had to navigate around it for nine months. It was a constant, bulky reminder of winter in the middle of my summer.

I finally realized I wasn’t solving a snowblower problem. I was solving a space problem.

That’s when I broke down and got a small storage unit. I’ll be honest, I fought the idea. It felt like an extra bill, an admission of failure. But let me tell you what it actually is: it’s a seasonal gear swap station.

In May, I wheel the snowblower, the shovels, the ice melt buckets into a clean, dry 5×5 unit. It takes 15 minutes. Then, I bring my patio furniture, the grill, the lawn chairs home. My garage transforms. I can actually walk in there. I can find my tools. I can, God forbid, park a car inside.

Come November, I do the reverse. I swap the summer stuff for the winter stuff. It’s a 30-minute chore that solves a 6-month headache.

The Bottom Line

The unit at our place? It’s not just a concrete box. It’s my off-season closet. It’s peace of mind. I know my stuff is dry, safe from mice and spiders, and not taking up the mental and physical space in my own home. The cost? Less than I spent on that last pizza order. Worth every penny to not have my snowblower silently judging me from the corner of the garage all summer.

Do the gas thing. Give it a wash. And for the love of all that is holy, give it—and yourself—a proper home for the summer. Your future self, standing in a quiet snowfall with a machine that starts on the first pull, will raise a grateful mug of coffee to you.