Chills, Sled and Spills

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In the winters of the ‘70s in Ogdensburg, kids didn’t just tolerate the snow and cold—we thrived in it. While adults grumbled about shoveling and unearthing their cars and warming them up, we saw every snowstorm as a fresh opportunity to risk life and limb in the name of fun (which was, of course, the optimal prerequisite to have fun). Our parents didn’t seem to care, as long as we were out of the house and their hair for a while.

Sliding was what most kids did, as it combined two essential elements of childhood recreation: the thrill of speed and the ever-present danger of bodily harm. There was nothing quite like rocketing down a hill at breakneck speed, snow spraying in your face, and bowling over a line of poor suckers trudging back uphill with their sleds in tow. One good collision could scatter a group of kids like pins at a bowling alley, with sleds flying down the hill on their own, and the kids having to run down in hot pursuit.

My place to go sliding was up on 37, almost to Morristown, at the state-operated ski/sledding park. It was actually a nice place, with a ski run on one side, a sledding hill on the other, and a cozy lodge with a fire pit inside.

Other than trying to maim other kids, there was other fun - making a ramp to shoot off of, which would have the effect of either putting another crack in your butt when you landed or, if you were lying down, rearranging your internal organs on the packed snow and ice. There was always the threat of losing control and heading for a tree, bushes, or some other errant object that wouldn’t move, in which case, you’d likely roll off the sled and take your chances in an attempt to save yourself.

Sleds back then were as much a status symbol as they were a vehicle of personal destruction. The Cadillac of sleds was, without a doubt, the toboggan. This was the limo of the sliding world, a long, polished wooden beauty with a curved nose, padded red seats, and a jaunty yellow rope at the front and along the sides.  You could get four kids piled on that thing, making it practically a parade float. But the toboggan had a fatal flaw: it was not built for impact. Hit a tree, and it would split like a cheap popsicle stick, leaving the passengers to sort themselves out in the wreckage.

Then there was the Flexible Flyer, the sports car of sleds. It had a steel frame and steering handles you could actually turn with your feet. In theory, you could navigate it with precision and grace. In practice, most kids wildly overcorrected and flipped the thing, launching themselves like rag dolls and sending the sled—now an unmanned projectile—down the hill to find its next victim, like an errant land torpedo.

For the everyman, there was the trusty red plastic sled, often found under the Christmas Tree. It didn’t have the bells and whistles of a Flyer, but it got the job done. You could cram two kids on it, hold on for dear life, and hope for the best. It wasn’t flashy, but it was reliable, and every kid worth their snow boots had one. You could also beat the heck of it, and rarely would they break.

Then there were the saucers—metal or plastic discs for the daredevils among us. No steering, no brakes, just pure chaos. You’d spin all the way down, completely at the mercy of physics. If the hill didn’t stop you, or if your disc didn’t cut into the snow and flip you out of it, a snowbank—or another kid—eventually would.

Finally, there was the blue plastic roll-up sled. Shaped like a tombstone (a fitting design choice), this thing was slicker than snot on a buttered chute. It was lightweight and deadly fast, and when you were done, it could be rolled up and transported easily.

Some kids, in an attempt to get even more speed, would position their sleds at the top of the hill, move back several paces, run, and jump onto the sled stomach first to give gravity a head start. The problem with this was that either the sled would take off on its own down the hill, or just as you were in mid-air about to mount your steed, some other brat would push the sled out of the way, and you go down the hill, with YOU as the sled. Oh yes, we did nasty stuff like that to each other all the time. Sometimes, you’d be unaware of a ramp some other kid built (as it was white on white), you’d hit it, and you and your sled would part ways mid-air like a like rocket with  it’s first-stage booster.

After a few hours of all that activity, we were usually soaked, inside and out, by our sweat from walking up that hill a dozen times or more and all the snow that melted on our snowsuits, and were ready to go home, quite exhausted and thrilled. We’d peel off our clothes at home, having more layers than a lasagna and feeling very much lighter and limber. Naps shortly after were not uncommon, so tired we’d be, and we’d eat double helpings for supper, much to our mom’s delight.