The ravine, behind our house, pt. 1

You'll remember the rink, maybe, and our frequent visits through the wintertime. Just as much, and nearly as often, we had this amazing place, and right behind our house!

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Not really! At the time we didn't have this barricade, or this po-faced sign. We would just—all the kids, and our friends, in various groupings and configurations—run around the corner, hop in tandem upon the toboggan, or in pairs on the carpet, or alone on the disc, and go!

Does this give a proper sense of the actual incline?  It does not.

Poplars here.  Also, aspen and birch.  And pine, fir, spruce.

In the last 30 years these trees have encroached some five yards on each side on our actual sledding run. Much like life.

Look at this!  Once, in grade seven, I went to the ravine for a quick late Saturday afternoon session. I got the usual good running start, gathered some speed and hit a nice slick patch, that sped me up even more as I hit a nice little jump, right here exactly.

Right here, exactly

Up I went! Down I came! Thought I oughta catch myself, sort of. Did so by putting down my hand, with the rest of my considerable bulk following after. Ouch! Wipe out, which was part of the point, after all. So I tried a couple of more runs. Ouch, continued. Back home, reporting discomfort to parents. In the time-honoured manner of parents to whom discomfort is being reported, my esteemed mother waited until Monday to check it out. I'd probably do the same, myself. If I ever let my kids go out and do fun things that is. 

 Result? A broken wrist! In the strange manner of early adolescent males, I took this to be cool, distinguished, a badge of honour in some fashion. Or, perhaps, I was only glad that I wouldn't have to practice the piano for a whole six weeks ... 

Do these give a proper sense of the actual incline? They do not.