“Our favourite amusement during that Winter was tobogganing. In places the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water’s edge. Down these steep slopes we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming surface to the opposite bank. What joy! What exhilarating madness! For one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!” (The Story of My Life, Helen Keller 1903)

            A winter’s day in a deep and dark December. They trudged through it regardless of the deep, regardless of the dark. The Snow was what they had come here to find. The five of them cut through the local schoolyard then along the old riverbed. Rounding the woods, the group came upon it. The clearing gave way to the slope and the slope fell into its valley. It was a good run to the bottom. The hill was massive, most certainly considering its location in the heart of the city. To the top of it, three of the four children walked alongside the large wooden toboggan. Each held their own method to the madness. On the board sat a young lad, restricted since birth. He came for the ride and they made sure he would have his ride. They all walked with their Dad, talked with their Dad, they spent the day with their Dad. The new snow was hard white and the sun glimmered off it like a flashlight pointed into your face. They were all pros at this game. They had come here to play. They lined up beside each other and they pushed off into the thick of it. Down the hill, up the hill, what a thrill. The second round found the oldest sibling grappling behind the youngest and pushing the two-plank toboggan into the drop. They did not just slide down the hill, they soared down the hill. For a moment, just a  moment, all things were equal. It was all momentum and movement. The young lad raised his arms as they plummeted down, down, down. He begged to do it again and again so they did just that. The trip back up was a bit of a bitch but eventually everyone united at the top. The game went on for hours. It’s not a toboggan day if your toes aren’t frozen. Years later and it is times like this we remember the most. There was no special event or dramatic episode. It was just a father with his children, letting them be kids. It was plain and it was simple and it was a good day.

            It’s not often that one gets access to a golf course in the winter. Irrelevant since they let them all in. Kids from all over pranced about the 18 holes like they owned the place. The two decided they were in it for the long haul. They had heard that there was a Master Slope somewhere near the 15th hole. The pair trudged on, toboggans following closely behind them while looking for Nirvana. Eventually, all the footprints disappeared and it was clear that no one else had ventured this far. They grew excited at the idea of a virgin territory. One foot after another followed into the snow, even though their toes had begun to freeze. The snow was deep and they had to stop several times so they could catch their breath. The golf course ran alongside a rather quaint and hidden river. It flowed down into town and puddled into a small lake near the old high school. As the pilgrims marched through the icy snow, a large blue heron dropped out of the sky and landed in a spot where they could see him. Surprised at its presence that far into the winter, they stopped and took notice of the beauty around them. They stood there for the longest time until onward, onward and upward. They walked past almost everything that could be considered civilization. It was like they had journeyed to the end of a very white world. There was nothing around them but snow and sky, white and gray for as far as the eye could see. It was peaceful, it was lovely. It was, finally, the 15th hole. They both stood with their mouths wide open. Before them was no master slope. You couldn’t really even call it a hill. They tried to make the best of it but that wild bird held more excitement for them. This was amateur crap and they were both more than annoyed. If there was no reward, why the hell did they come so far for nothing? Life works that way even if you brought your own toboggan. 

            The tradition had gone on winter after winter for years. 4 months into his freshman year and he stood ready for the initiation. The back of the old high school dropped off rather sharply once you got past the smoking area. The cliff was eroded and added a little more slope with each passing season. This was a good thing. Come the first accumulating snow, and dozens of students (mostly male) grabbed a tray from the cafeteria and headed out back to continue the custom. His brothers had both gone this way a few years before him but that was not the reason he wanted to have a go. It was always about the thrill and the challenge, and fuck all the social bullshit. It didn’t matter if they liked him or even that he fit in. The brown cafeteria tray was tucked under his arm and he snuck it out the door that led to the back of the school. The fact that he might get caught did not concern him. Tray after tray met the snow and the ice yet no one seemed to care about that. The entire process did not garner one complaint or even one teacher coming out to end the fun. He felt safe following all the others. He stood and watched, noting style and form and position of the tray. The muddy slope was glazed over, any snow that had fallen the night before was gone now, crushed and pushed into a sheet of silvery ice. He got in line, approached a launch site, then plunged down into it. He had taken this ride before, many times in fact. With family, with friends, even with strangers he had spent hours going up and down from top to bottom. He knew it like the back of his hand. With the snow came bitter temperatures. The cold never really bothered him but after a few turns, well over an hour on the hill, his toes began to feel frozen. This only meant that he had been doing something right. Soon, other appendages began to tingle, and not in a good way. He eventually headed inside to thaw and get his bearings. It would be years before he returned to ride that slope again. He walked by it in the summer and sat on it come autumn, but he did not feel the need to partake again, at least for the rest of his stay at the high school. Every year, things repeated. The tradition went on, even after he graduated. Eventually, all things pass, most things fade away. This is the price we pay for living. So too, the high school closed and access to the hill was restricted. If you wanted to slide down slope, you had to find somewhere else to do it.

“Cold toes

are not like frozen fingers

which can linger intertwined

in the fingers of another.

Cold toes freeze alone.”

            The golf course will soon be gone. They are putting up condos and leaving only a shell of what used to be. He heard it would be closing and construction would start in early spring. He came back for one more hello and a final goodbye, not only to the place of a memory but of his friend who passed away in the late summer from cancer.  He tried to walk exactly as they both had many years before. He thought about the deep snow and the wonder of a blue heron come full winter. He thought about that useless rise. The disappointment they felt then became laughter and cherished memory later. They talked about this time whenever the wind picked up and snow began to fall. It bound them together for years. Like with winter, the sting of life fades as time passes. This did not hinder his mission. There, like before, stood that tiny hill, just to the right of the 15^th hole.  He pulled a garbage bag out of his coat and proceeded to mount it and engage the rather simple slope. The entire motion was anticlimactic, just like it had been back then. He smiled as he walked way. His toes were frozen.

            Before the high school closed, he ventured back to this hallow place to have a few turns at the hill one more time. He had not attended it for many years. With a few family members beside him, he took his turn once again at riding the beast. At one point, it was like they owned it, all alone, with the deserted high school as a backdrop. The icy path to the bottom was familiar to him. It looked like it did the day he discovered a cafeteria tray is as good as any toboggan, especially if the slide is just right. They played for the longest time. They stayed for so long their toes began to freeze. Eventually, he coupled up with his nephew, intending to give him the ride of his life. Back and forth, up and down, the child screamed out in joy. Over and over the pair danced with the ice and snow but neither element could stand in the way. When the high school was dismantled, a senior centre went up in its place. He found it ironic that a space which brought such youthful energy would now know nothing but a lack thereof. There is a new high school, just out on the edge of town. The old school was literally torn down for the new retirement home at the top of the hill. Come winter, whenever he drives by the old place, he looks for revellers and adventurers in ice. He hasn’t seen a soul in years.
            They made a decision to find out if the hill was still there. It was a good idea and they both agreed to winter terms. Before they left the house for the snow, it became all about layers. If you didn’t wear the right amount, your toes could freeze. Each grabbed their rollup sled from the backseat and adjusted themselves for the walk in the cold. It was like the world completely reverted when they reached the top of it. It was still pristine, just like it always had been. It was just like childhood told, an otherland of cold.   They came here for this purpose. Many times, this hill and the experience of it was shared around the dinner table or at a party with friends. It was a cherished idea that once came to be. They readied, unrolled the plastic then positioned for the best momentum. They had to flop down on them before they blew away. The hill was exactly the ride that it used to be. Nothing had really changed. The snow would blow in your face, the wind biting as you commit to the glide. The pair went down together, in their wake a new memory and a new story. They did not know that this would be the last time. The hill is not the same these days. The entire bottom of the slope is nothing but row house after row house. The hill just ends and apparently, it ain’t coming back. It was like they amputated the valley right off the face of it. Some of the descent is still there but there is no option to exit, not safely at any rate. The sight was heartbreaking when he saw it last. A few years and everything shifted, it changed and not for the better. Sometimes you can go back and rediscover a treasure you once knew. More often than not, you cannot. What once was is rarely ever what is. Time is fluid, never frozen.

“My toes are cold

I lost my nose

I think it froze

Right off my face

My ears are red

Hands are numb

This is going to be

Fun fun

Playing in the winter sun”

            I am not much for winter sports. I don’t mind watching the Winter Olympics but I would never participate in them. I don’t ski, although I have attempted both downhill and cross country. I cannot skate and I have never been able to. Although I fared well with street hockey as a child, not being able to skate was a general deterrent for me when it came to the true sport. My ankles were always so weak that whenever I tried to skate, it was like watching Goofy give it a go. Hockey was out and so was figure skating. Not that the latter was of interest to me. I always thought it was kind of gay. I do not own a snowshoe and I have never worn a snowshoe. The closest I have gotten was trudging  through the snow, pulling my toboggan. This was my sport, for lack of a better term. Riding the snow and the ice on a toboggan from Canadian Tire was the one winter activity I excelled at. I had never really felt like a good Canadian boy but at least I was good at something homegrown and wintery. Winter and sport is like cake and ice cream to many a Canuck. It was humiliating nonetheless. My inability all lies with my feet. I’m not even that good while simply sliding on ice. Whether for fun or for circumstance, I usually fall and bruise my ass. All in all, I have many memories of my life in the snow. Each one is cold but warming just the same. When I think back on all my days on a slope, even my toes feel like they are frozen.

https://www.martelloalley.com/products/copy-of-pulling-the-toboggan-home-lg

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/178275/cold-toes/