Cherry Hill

Monday’s unexpected (and frankly, inconvenient) snow flurry caused an unfortunate full-day delay for my 4-year-old, who was anxiously anticipating her first ride on a big-girl bike. The combination of seasonally inappropriate precipitation, and the sight of her wandering around the house in her brand-new helmet, got me to reminiscing about a simpler, less safety-conscious time; Coeur d’Alene in the 1980s.

When I was very young, before they knew better, my family used to frequent Cherry Hill during the winter months. At the time of course, Cherry Hill wasn’t so expansive; just a locally renowned sledding hill/battle arena.

Back then it didn’t have the park or the fire station at the bottom, and was just a large, empty hill set back far enough from the road for the small to attempt serious bodily harm without the adult population noticing their efforts.

Which isn’t to say there weren’t any adults there; just that 98 percent of them didn’t seem to have an iota of concern for the well-being of the next generation of winter sports enthusiasts. I think they viewed it as an initiation. Weed out the weak early on by allowing us to careen into each other at supercharged speed.

I was up there much too young. I remember being 2, but my mother swears up and down I wasn’t as young as that. I was at least 3. Possibly even 4!

For some reason, I also was piloting a sled entirely solo. Down a huge embankment. Into a crowd of approximately four million people. None of whom were paying attention to anyone else.

I think it was my pink sled. It was extra small, so a 4-(2!) year-old fit perfectly. I remember it being a very hard plastic, harder than any other sled I’ve ever had or seen since. And it went FAST. I think an experienced jet pilot would have had trouble steering that devilish contraption.

Which is assuming someone taught me how to steer. This is my very first sledding memory, and it starts at the top of the hill. If there were safety courses or driving instructions discussed before the launch, I forgot them then, and they remain forgotten to this day.

I remember the sheer panic when someone (Mom? Dad?) pushed me over the edge. The world opened up before me, and I began my descent into the abyss. Surely, no one in the history of man had ever plummeted down such a steep precipice. I was the first. A crusader! And grievous injury was imminent. I would go down in the history books as the bravest and most reckless sledder of all time. They would whisper my name in legend as they prepared for their own charge down the hill; a mumbled prayer uttered with fingers crossed, that they may avoid a similar fate.

That moment, the moment when the sled first began to tip downward, lasted an eternity.

Once begun, all was a blur. One cannot notice details at Mach 47. I remember flashes of pastel snow pants, flailing limbs, and the occasional snow saucer speeding past. Why had I set my course through a crowd of other small children? Did no one look to see where I was pointed before they let me go?

I don’t think I ever slowed down, but I think my mind started to catch up. As I approached the bottom of the hill, I could see more than flashes of color. (But not sound. I don’t remember hearing a single sound for the entire journey). I saw a man and a boy much bigger than myself (but still so small) crossing directly in front of my path. The man, like all the other adults, didn’t even seem to notice my rapid approach. But the boy, at the ripe old age of 7ish, saw too late the calamity headed his way.

His head turned in my direction. His eyes locked onto mine. His jaw fell open, his mouth becoming a perfect, comic “o” of surprise. There was no registration of fear, just pure shock at my unexpected arrival. He was half carrying, half dragging a dark red sled.

As it turned out, he was never in danger. He just managed to get clear before the collision. His sled needn’t have worried either, because it defeated me before the skirmish even began. The sharp edge slammed into my nose before I had even contemplated a battle plan. Total knockout, round 1.

The next thing I remember was my dad yelling at me to stop being a baby. This was the wild and untamed ’80s, and in those days of casual child endangerment, in the absence of missing limbs or spouting blood, you were expected to just walk it off. Never mind that I woke the next day with two black eyes, and a scar I would wear all through middle school; it was just a plastic sled attempting a high-speed rhinoplasty on a moving target! It couldn’t possibly hurt THAT bad. Quit being a drama queen.

But drama queen I was, and the remainder of our excursion had to be canceled, much to the chagrin of my father and sister. And while I did eventually learn to enjoy sledding again, Cherry Hill had forever been tainted in my mind. When I see the happy little park and the respectable fire station, I see mere stage dressing, hiding the sinister intent of a possibly sentient mountain; one that bides its time and lies in wait for the next innocent preschooler, lured into catastrophe by the false promises of “good family fun.”

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Diana Braskich is a resident of Coeur d’Alene.