The toboggan’s scarred and battered prow, with its narrow strips of varnished wood, scraped, scratched, warped and dinged, attested to its long history of snowy campaigns where trees and rocks were our eternal foe. Its red, vinyl pad, cracked and beaten from all the use, with plastic rope ties ever-untying, often turned this dubious cushion of comfort into a slippery, red projectile that littered the hill with sledders.
It took little prodding to initiate sledding on the golf course near our home. After a few phone calls, friends from town would be gathered at our back door with a variety of apparatus ranging from plastic school lunch trays to super-duper downhill racers.
Like a procession of well laden ants, we'd head down Shoreacres Road and into the heart of winter with spirits high. During the mile or so journey to the ravines, the boys would rarely wait for the final destination before throwing themselves at any slope of snow.
Even the dingy, frozen piles left by the plows.
You could see it coming.
Cheeks crimson.
Noses dripping.
Devilish smiles rising, they’d step back a few paces, and then, with big boots trudging heavily along the snow-packed road, they’d jettison themselves, skidding atop the icy, roadside heap.
Like silk on broken glass.
Slightly dented but still undeterred, the flatter, frozen road ahead would spawn another attempt and in short order, unsuspecting members of the entourage would find themselves directly (and not indirectly) in the path of another misguided trajectory, victims strewn in the wake, shouting obscenities in between fits of laughter.
Crossing thigh-high snowdrifts, pushing against the penetrating Lake Michigan winds, we knew there was reward in the shelter of the woods, in the rise and fall of the ravines just ahead. By the time the last of the stragglers reached the first hills, bodies were already hurtling down the small, steep hills.
Feet first and head first.
Untouched, uncharted snow was quickly trampled smooth and slick so sleds would go fast and faster.
So sledders could soar toward the woods below.
Laughing like hyenas.
Until the next sound was cracking plastic or straining planks, followed by moans, grunts, more laughter... and a few more well chosen profanities.
More than slightly apprehensive to sled in tandem with these boy rocketeers, I also knew I'd never gain the speed I craved when sledding solo. So I’d climb aboard, wrap my arms around their thick, damp, denim layers and look below to our target.
A hand-packed jump.
Designed to make you fly.
I'd plead for caution, knowing full well that caution was about to be damned.
On occasion, we’d actually manage to find air between the sled and snow, but the moment was fleeting before losing my hold, my pilot, a boot and a glove.
Yet gaining a face full of snow.
And a smile from ear to ear.
Exhausted and satiated, I'd eventually find a spot at the top of the ravine and watch the boys. with their boundless bravado, attempt daredevil moves of surfing and spinning and bumper sleds, determined to create one more spectacular crash, either into each other or into the trees, before the snowy adventure could be considered a success.
When the winter sun began its early descent and the dampness sunk deep into our winter layers, leaving us in a constant state of chill, we'd stumble home, iced-over and exhausted, the older boys usually pulling along the little ones who had no more to give that day; each return step energized by the thought of the warmth that would embrace us when we opened the back door.
Fueled by the knowledge that crackling fires and hot chocolate waited at the other end.
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