Sitting here looking out at the first winter snow falling on the Maryland woods in back of the house, makes me think back to snow falls when I was a kid. It seems like snow was more fun then than now. Now I have to shovel out the cars, shovel the walk, deal with idiots on the road who all seem to want to prove how incompetent they can be with just a little white stuff falling from the sky. But when I was a kid, there was the sled run.
I guess I was about 12 when the small gang of us made a sled run in the woods. There was a nice steep hill, so we cleared brush and smoothed it down, and packed the snow by tramping up and down the hill. Since it was hidden in the woods, it was our own private sled run by the deep pool in the creek that we thought of as our own creek. The sled run was perpendicular to the creek, and the deep hole where we swam in the hot summer afternoons.
Our 'Official' scout knives and hatchets got a good workout clearing the run of the odd brush here and there, so none of use would loose an eye or impale ourselves while at whatever high speed we hoped to achieve. We cut off branches like Mr. Van had showed us, by bending a bit, and cutting in at a 45 degree angle. A good sharp scout knife will go through a thumb thick branch like butter if the scout had done his work on the blade. And of course, Mr. Van had made sure we did the work on the blades, every single Friday night at the start of every meeting with an inspection of our scout knives. Mr. Van had little tolerance of dull edges, on either our scout knives or hatchets.
It was a good time after all the chopping and cutting. A nice run, and we took turns sliding down the narrow lane we had made in the thick wooded slope. Of course, being 12 year boys, we kept egging each other on, seeing how fast we could get going. A fast sprint, and then flopping down on our Flexible Fliers, we'd fly down the snow packed hill, almost to the brink of the creek bank and then drag one foot to help make a sharp turn and come to a stop using a stout bush as a safety net. All went well for while.
There's one in every crowd, the guy who just has to mess up. We had Bobby Ryerson.
We'd been ribbing Bobby pretty good, okay real good. Bobby was a little timid going down the sled run, not really running much before his start. Everett, Dave, and even me had been calling him out.
"Come on, do it like ya got a pair!"
Or;
"Buckbuckbuckbuckbuuuuck!" Dave making chicken noises.
Bobby got mad finally, and overcoming his natural caution took a really good running start from way back, and flopping down on his sled. We stood watching in admiration.
"Wow. He's really hauling!" said Dave.
"Yeah, he's really hauling' like heck". said Ev.
Then we watched while admiration changed to alarm as Bobby passed the turnoff to the safety bush, and plunged right over the creek bank and out of sight. To this day, I don't if he was going too fast to turn, or he froze up. The maneuverability of a Flexible Flier at high speed left a little to be desired. We heard a cracking and a yell of panic. Flopping down on our own sleds, we made a fast run down the hill to where we last saw Bobby vanish. It was a very cold day, and the creek was mostly frozen over. Mostly. Bobby had crashed in the creek, and halfway broken through the ice. In very short order, we had him dragged out, and he was partly soaked.
We set about dealing with the situation. After all, we were Mr. Van's scouts and we knew what to do. Bobby was set down on a log, and kindling was gathered. It was cold enough that ice was already forming in his clothes. Our knives were put to use, stripping off damp bark, shaving off almost translucent peels of wood, while Dave made a fuzz stick. It's amazing how thin a slice of wood can be gotten with a nice thin bladed sharp scout knife. Back then, there were no Bic lighters, and not old enough to smoke we didn't carry Zippo's. But we had our "Official" scout match safes, made out of good brass and a nice tight screw cap that was pretty water proof. Inside were nice big barn burner strike anywhere matches. Matches seemed bigger in those days, practically two by fours compared to modern toothpick size matches. We whittled, shaved, and when Ev struck a match, we had a nice big pile of fine shavings and a beautiful fuzz stick sitting on top. It was a one match fire, and we were darn proud of ourselves. At least Dave, Ev, and I were proud. Bobby was too busy chattering his teeth like castanets for a flamingo dance. Twig by twig, we fed it into a nice size fire in front of Bobby.
It didn't take long to hang Bobbys wet clothing on sticks by the fire, and with some of our stuff on him like Ev's coat, my sweater that was under my coat, and a sweatshirt from Dave to put over his legs like a lap blanket, the situation was well in hand. Bobby was okay, but more importantly, our sledding for the day was still a go. In about an hour Bobby's stuff was dry enough to put back on, and we took the opportunity to make Bobby's misfortune a lunch break. Taking some cold hot dogs from our possibles bags and skewering them on properly made hot dog sticks, we had a nice hot lunch by the creek bank. I don't know why, but it's one of the mysteries of life why a hot dog always takes best roasted over an open fire.
It's funny, that a potential disaster like a soaking wet Bobby Ryerson was saved by a sharp scout knife or two, and a match. It was a good lesson to us kids that it was all about a few things carried all the time, and knowing how to use them. We didn't have miracle fiber clothing, or fancy gear. Just wool clothing and sharp pocket knives and matches in a nice brass screw top match safe, and knowing how to make a fire quickly.
When a detailed report was made to Mr. Van, he told us it was well done. Then he chewed us out for trying to break Olympic bobsled records with a creek at the bottom of our sled run. It's well and good remember proper prior planing. But it's asking a lot for 12 year old boys when the snow is falling and the sled runners are all waxed up.
I guess I was about 12 when the small gang of us made a sled run in the woods. There was a nice steep hill, so we cleared brush and smoothed it down, and packed the snow by tramping up and down the hill. Since it was hidden in the woods, it was our own private sled run by the deep pool in the creek that we thought of as our own creek. The sled run was perpendicular to the creek, and the deep hole where we swam in the hot summer afternoons.
Our 'Official' scout knives and hatchets got a good workout clearing the run of the odd brush here and there, so none of use would loose an eye or impale ourselves while at whatever high speed we hoped to achieve. We cut off branches like Mr. Van had showed us, by bending a bit, and cutting in at a 45 degree angle. A good sharp scout knife will go through a thumb thick branch like butter if the scout had done his work on the blade. And of course, Mr. Van had made sure we did the work on the blades, every single Friday night at the start of every meeting with an inspection of our scout knives. Mr. Van had little tolerance of dull edges, on either our scout knives or hatchets.
It was a good time after all the chopping and cutting. A nice run, and we took turns sliding down the narrow lane we had made in the thick wooded slope. Of course, being 12 year boys, we kept egging each other on, seeing how fast we could get going. A fast sprint, and then flopping down on our Flexible Fliers, we'd fly down the snow packed hill, almost to the brink of the creek bank and then drag one foot to help make a sharp turn and come to a stop using a stout bush as a safety net. All went well for while.
There's one in every crowd, the guy who just has to mess up. We had Bobby Ryerson.
We'd been ribbing Bobby pretty good, okay real good. Bobby was a little timid going down the sled run, not really running much before his start. Everett, Dave, and even me had been calling him out.
"Come on, do it like ya got a pair!"
Or;
"Buckbuckbuckbuckbuuuuck!" Dave making chicken noises.
Bobby got mad finally, and overcoming his natural caution took a really good running start from way back, and flopping down on his sled. We stood watching in admiration.
"Wow. He's really hauling!" said Dave.
"Yeah, he's really hauling' like heck". said Ev.
Then we watched while admiration changed to alarm as Bobby passed the turnoff to the safety bush, and plunged right over the creek bank and out of sight. To this day, I don't if he was going too fast to turn, or he froze up. The maneuverability of a Flexible Flier at high speed left a little to be desired. We heard a cracking and a yell of panic. Flopping down on our own sleds, we made a fast run down the hill to where we last saw Bobby vanish. It was a very cold day, and the creek was mostly frozen over. Mostly. Bobby had crashed in the creek, and halfway broken through the ice. In very short order, we had him dragged out, and he was partly soaked.
We set about dealing with the situation. After all, we were Mr. Van's scouts and we knew what to do. Bobby was set down on a log, and kindling was gathered. It was cold enough that ice was already forming in his clothes. Our knives were put to use, stripping off damp bark, shaving off almost translucent peels of wood, while Dave made a fuzz stick. It's amazing how thin a slice of wood can be gotten with a nice thin bladed sharp scout knife. Back then, there were no Bic lighters, and not old enough to smoke we didn't carry Zippo's. But we had our "Official" scout match safes, made out of good brass and a nice tight screw cap that was pretty water proof. Inside were nice big barn burner strike anywhere matches. Matches seemed bigger in those days, practically two by fours compared to modern toothpick size matches. We whittled, shaved, and when Ev struck a match, we had a nice big pile of fine shavings and a beautiful fuzz stick sitting on top. It was a one match fire, and we were darn proud of ourselves. At least Dave, Ev, and I were proud. Bobby was too busy chattering his teeth like castanets for a flamingo dance. Twig by twig, we fed it into a nice size fire in front of Bobby.
It didn't take long to hang Bobbys wet clothing on sticks by the fire, and with some of our stuff on him like Ev's coat, my sweater that was under my coat, and a sweatshirt from Dave to put over his legs like a lap blanket, the situation was well in hand. Bobby was okay, but more importantly, our sledding for the day was still a go. In about an hour Bobby's stuff was dry enough to put back on, and we took the opportunity to make Bobby's misfortune a lunch break. Taking some cold hot dogs from our possibles bags and skewering them on properly made hot dog sticks, we had a nice hot lunch by the creek bank. I don't know why, but it's one of the mysteries of life why a hot dog always takes best roasted over an open fire.
It's funny, that a potential disaster like a soaking wet Bobby Ryerson was saved by a sharp scout knife or two, and a match. It was a good lesson to us kids that it was all about a few things carried all the time, and knowing how to use them. We didn't have miracle fiber clothing, or fancy gear. Just wool clothing and sharp pocket knives and matches in a nice brass screw top match safe, and knowing how to make a fire quickly.
When a detailed report was made to Mr. Van, he told us it was well done. Then he chewed us out for trying to break Olympic bobsled records with a creek at the bottom of our sled run. It's well and good remember proper prior planing. But it's asking a lot for 12 year old boys when the snow is falling and the sled runners are all waxed up.
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