It was one of those strange weather days in mid-January 1974. As I stared out the kitchen window, it was lightly snowing and the thermometer reading was 10 degrees. Just the day before it was raining and the temperature had hit 45 degrees.
I thought to myself that the situation had created perfect conditions for runner sledding—a fast sledding experience familiar to an eight-year-old sledding enthusiast such as myself.
I could not wait to put my winter gear on and make tracks to the open hill that led down the old sand road from our Limekiln Lake home.
My boots were a tight fit. They cramped my toes as I made my way to the garage where my trusted Yankee Clipper hung from a nail over a giant pile of wood. I scrambled up the wood pile and pulled the old sled down only to find that its runners were pretty rusted.
I wrestled the sled into my father’s workshop and rubbed the runners with heavy grit sandpaper until they were silver and gleaming.
I found a paraffin candle in the drawer of an old dresser where my father stored odd tools.
I ran it up and down the runners for at least five minutes to build up a coat of wax that would help me break land speed records once I hit the hill.
Since I was in the shop I decided to replace the rope of my sled which was looking old and worn out.
I spied a length of clothesline hanging from a hook and cut about four feet of it with an old pair of tin snips.
Then I threaded it through the sled’s eye holes, knotting it tightly to hold fast.
I tugged the sled out our driveway and within two minutes I was staring down Sand Road hill surveying my first run.
I knelt down and brushed away some of the light snow to find a perfect layer of pure flat ice ready for my descent.
I sat down on the sled, tucked the rope under me, and threw my fists to the surface to put myself in motion and gain speed.
My first run sent me a lot further out on the flats of the road then I had anticipated. Steering was a bit of an issue but overall, conditions were perfect.
I made at least 20 runs—some on my stomach and some on my butt—and each one was better than the the one before it.
The Yankee Clipper and I made strange sounds as we tromped back up the hill.
My wincing in tight boots mixed with the gentle dragging swooshes of the runners lightly squeaking atop the snow.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller,
lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com