“Dude ... it was like going off a ski slope without skis, man. Like, I swear I hung 30 seconds in the air!!”
Some are not so worthy but interesting nonetheless. I think I’ve got one.
We discussed sledding at the office last week, when the snows were falling everywhere. How, when we were young, we hardly thought it brave when we did crazy things on sleds or other conveyances. And we wondered if we could muster the same courage today.
We can, of course. But it’s the “doing it” that’s the challenge.
In my case, when I was 10 or so years old, the place to prove your sled cred was Bridges Hill.
The hill was actually two steep hills that fronted a big, colonial residence a good two large blocks from our house in Webster Groves, an old St. Louis suburb. There were thick trees on the west side, more open on the east. A creek ran along the bottom, separating the hills from a slow-moving street called Glen Road.
The house always was mysterious … at Halloween, we’d walk the long, steep driveway up to the front door, and sometimes there’d be candy in a bowl outside, sometimes not.
That seemed odd. Given the size of the house and majesty of the front yard, we figured they maybe even had a butler.
That apparent reticence hung around when snows arrived. Kids from surrounding blocks would bring their sleds to the top hill, right in front of the house’s front door. But the door rarely opened, the Bridges rarely came out, or – thankfully – bothered to shoo us away. In fact, at night, they’d even leave the porch light on for us.
Quiet benevolence. Incredible generosity, really.
The magic of Bridges Hill was the double whammy of the two hills: the top one, more abbreviated, was both the staging area and launching pad. I’d estimate it to be 10 feet tall, with a fairly steep drop.
It was mainly a swift introduction to the next hill, a tortuous, sheer fall of probably 30 feet. Its middle was shaped like a “V,” so that sledders were naturally channeled into the fast-moving center.
At the very bottom of the second hill, just short of the creek, stood a massive tree, the rough width of a Sherman tank.
Typically when I’d test the hill I’d bring along either my classic Flexible Flyer sled or a saucer, depending on how brave I felt.
With the Flyer you had control … you could steer around that tree. But with the saucer, you were flying blind, at gravity’s whim. You’d plop into the saucer, turn yourself backwards facing the house so you could give a good push, and off you went.
The first descent was gut-wrenching, less because of the hill than because of the fear of what came next.
You’d sink fast, seeing only the kids you left behind. And almost immediately you’d get sucked into the vortex of the second hill’s “V.” Along this “V” were the hill’s vast shoulders, swiftly muscling you back into the middle. Still facing backwards, you’d bounce and slam from one side to the other, hurtling ever faster down the channel.
The snow would fly by, now a blur. If you were lucky, the bouncing would turn you around so you could see what was ahead.
Ahead was … the tree.
Steadfast, merciless, nature’s brick wall.
The smart ones would bail out just before the saucer smashed against its broad trunk. But that required good timing, and a willingness to tumble at 20 miles an hour through the snow. And if you bailed too late and in the wrong direction, the tree would get you anyway.
Of course, those new to the hill usually never saw the tree coming … always good for a laugh from the veterans.
I remember my first crash: I was in the silver saucer, had turned around just in time to see the tree coming, and smartly leaned back with my rubber boots high in the air just in time. The saucer’s bottom rammed the trunk, sending me tumbling back. But alive.
Two other points to mention:
First, keep in mind that while you’d be sliding down at unimaginable speeds, dozens of other kids would be doing the same or trying to slog their way back up. If you’ve seen those Little Rascal shows where Spanky and Alfalfa drive makeshift carts down a steep sidewalk and knock pedestrians 10 feet into the air … well, yeah, it was like that.
Second, there was Glen Road at the bottom. But we didn’t worry about sliding into traffic. Because if you safely made it by the tree, the creek was there to catch you.
Now, it was a shallow creek, and on the coldest days, it’d be frozen. But St. Louis was rarely cold enough to freeze a swift-moving creek. Plus it was laden with rocks, roots and other rough stuff.
So the options were obvious in the last seconds: bail out, or dig in your toes, or fly over the edge into the creek's shallow ... wet! ... roughness.
***
The long walk early in the day to Bridges Hill was always telling. We were warm, dry, ready for adventure. But we’d see other neighbor kids already walking home, like soldiers back from the front, bearing the signs of battle.
Their cheeks would be bright red, they’d be limping, their toes obviously numb. Not unusual.
But a very few carried bigger scars – a bloody lip, or pants and coats completely soaked through (the creek got 'em). Some would be like dead men walking, the tears spent, eyes unfocused.
We weren’t deterred, of course. Sure, the hill legally belonged to the Bridges family. But we owned it, we knew its tricks. It was ours to conquer.
On good days, we did.
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