The Sledding Hill

I am eight years old. 

I’m nineteen. 

“Come on, get ready. We’re leaving.”

“I have all my stuff by the door, Mom. Mom, can you help me put my sleeves over my gloves? Mom, what time are we supposed to be there? Are we leaving now, Mom? Is Baby Savana coming?”

“Oh that’s right! Do you need help with anything?”

She smiles at me, hoisting her bag filled with styrofoam cups and thermoses of hot chocolate to her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

I sit, all scrunched down in my seat. Mom helps me buckle up because my hands are rendered useless by the gloves. It is hot with all these layers: undershirt, long-sleeved shirt, sweater, jacket, not to mention the heavy boots hanging at the end of my likewise entrapped legs. I am hot and thirsty before we get there. It seems to take forever. Mom says it’s only supposed to be five minutes but she must be wrong.

I’m wearing leggings under my jeans, a t-shirt, and jacket. My gloves are in my pocket along with my toque, I’ll pull them on when I get there. 

Our whole homeschooling group is here! All of my friends! We laugh and chatter and run for the pile of sleds that Daddy is taking out of the back of the van. Alex gets there before I do and takes the good one. We have to take the one-seaters instead, and I am left with the thin plastic one. That’s okay. It goes the fastest. We run for the hill— or trudge, rather: all of us equally encumbered by our loving mothers.

We get out of the Armada and I put my seat down to let my siblings in the back out. They all grab sleds. I take the thin plastic one, used to the occurrence. I’ll get the big one later on. I challenge Mom with a race to the hill. She just laughs, and I march along to the hill, following her and Dad. Then Alex rams into my side and takes off running. I glower at him and chase him across the hard snow, then lose my traction and end up on my rear. He asks if I’m alright. I remain on the ground till he turns around and helps me up. We make our way with wiser speed towards the hill where our siblings are already halfway down.

We get on our sleds and holler until one of the dads pushes us off. We wanted to race, but only one dad was near at the time, so we got pushed off separately, but there is still room for competition. Who went the farthest? We do a couple rounds, sweating our way up the hills and screaming our way down. The hill is huge. It only takes a couple seconds to get down. The path up, though, is a different story, struggling through the slushy path with our bundled bodies already hindered, dragging our sleds and not even talking for need of oxygen to our muscles. 

I sit down on my sled and shove myself to the tipping point. Just as I get going, I feel hands on my shoulders. Someone shoves me but holds onto my right shoulder just a bit longer. I spin away down the hill, catching sight of Alex tumbling after me for several yards, grinning maliciously. Apparently, scaring me was worth the fall. I let out a scream of delight as my world revolves around me while I fly forwards. 

“Daddy, can you spin me?” He does, and I shriek, holding on to my sled for dear life, when a thought comes to me. I pry my fingers off the handles and thrust them valiantly into the air. For a moment I am the bravest kid in the homeschool group, before my sled stops short and ejects me onto my side. I roll to a stop, spitting the gritty snow out of my mouth, and try to get my bearings, then get smacked on the cheekbone by my errant sled. Tears start to my eyes, but Marian and Sara come down nearby and help me up. They assure me that I looked pretty cool before I fell. 

Climbing the hill is easier now. It’s not nearly as high as what it used to seem like. I can keep up with Mom now. Tyler asks if we’ll pull him up. We both laugh and inform him that he can use his own legs, but we slow down graciously so he doesn’t have to walk up alone. Phil charges the hill as we reach the top, holding a long sled in front of him, and takes a running dive. I laugh. There is no way I could do that now— I have become way too sensible. Fear would stop me. Also, my womanly assets are a bit of a deterrent. 

I grip the long sled that I have stolen from Alex tightly and dive over the edge of the hill. The idea that this might be foolishness has not yet entered my mind, only exhilaration and adrenaline. I fly headfirst and land on the sled. A grunt escapes me as I make contact with the packed track. Sailing down the hill is marvellous. I get some snow in my face, but if I keep my lips pinched and eyelids scrunched so I can barely see, I am fine. I make my way back up the hill and find Nathan at the top, waiting for a sled. His little brother, Elijah, or Elisha, I could never remember, leaps down the hill the same way I did. He tries to stop him but can’t, then warns me seriously that going down on my stomach could be dangerous. I point out the obvious fact— that I am dead yet and in fact feel quite fine. He nods and says I will never know until one day I go to a doctor and find out that I have broken something inside of myself by hitting all the rocks and ramps with my stomach. As a fellow eight-year-old, his word is nearly gospel, so I resolve not to do it again. 

“We’re all done now, you can go for one more slide.”

I beg Daddy to push me, and he says that he supposes he can push me one more time. I ask him to do it harder than all the other times so I go even faster and maybe break the farthest record. I come up short and disappointed, but when I get to the top, every feeling is put aside for the hot chocolate in styrofoam cups that is sure to get spilled over my gloves.

I resolve to take my last slide in silence. It is a strange feeling, flying along in the brisk air, and I whisper a thanks to God for a fun afternoon. The sun sparkles on the snow we haven’t trampled, and I can’t help it. I break my resolve and let out a whoop of pure joy. It was inevitable.