This old sled was a Christmas gift from me to my son Wesley when he about ten years old. Shortly after the holidays, we were blanketed with a lovely snowfall and hardly able to contain our enthusiasm, my son and I headed to Pilot Knob State Park. It was a steady snowfall, no breeze whatsoever, a still and glorious backdrop to our efforts as we gleefully trudged up the steep hill that overlooks Dead Man’s Lake. This was a popular sledding spot that afforded a thrilling ride down a seemingly perpendicular drop and then a long skid across the ice of the frozen pond below.
I can still recall – with a huge smile on my face – the magic we both felt as we made our way to the crest of the hill. We had the place to ourselves and the anticipation was almost tangible. Finally, we made it to the top and as we dropped the sled, ready to course down the trail, reality rudely and abruptly brought us up short. The snow was a fine powder, clean, white and distinct – each and every one of those hundreds of thousands of uniquely magnificent flakes. Beautiful to behold but certainly not the right texture for sledding. Wesley’s brand spankin’ new sled was designed for hard-packed surfaces and as such, it dropped with a thud and was buried beneath that fluffy accumulation of winter precipitation. Wesley and I just looked at each other – and then we laughed. All our efforts to climb the hill, the huffing and puffing, the exertion required to carry ourselves and Wesley’s new sled all that way were for naught. It didn’t matter though because my son and I were together, sharing a wonderful moment and unbeknownst to us at the time, creating a powerful memory.
To this day, it still makes me smile.