The Ice Hill

     I had just gotten off the phone with my buddy Joe who lives up in the Detroit area. We’ve known each other for almost 60 years but probably don’t talk as often as we should. With the Winter Olympics entering their fifth day of round-the-clock coverage, the two of us were probably bored to the gills and took the opportunity to call.

Talking so infrequently has gotten both of us out of practice in the art of meaningful small talk. We talk about what we’re doing but, the truth is, we don’t do much—at least nothing worth talking about.

The grandkids come up, as does our ailments and the high cost of treating those ailments. Politics surface occasionally but neither of us has a real personal stake. We’ll both survive whatever Congress can throw at us.

Our lives resemble more of a holding pattern and fortunately, we won’t have to hold on forever. Detroit’s terrible professional sports teams continue to haunt Joe just as Virginia Beach’s lack of sports teams irks me but, again, neither of us really care.

There was a time when not having anything to talk about didn’t make any difference. Like those long summer afternoons when it was too hot to play baseball—too hot even to play catch. Neither of us had a problem with lying on the grass and watching the clouds pass overhead.

Now, it’s like the clouds really have passed us by.

“We’re going camping, this weekend,” Joe said, matter-of-factly. “We’re pretty excited about it,” he added, predictably.

Sounds exciting,” I said, as my elbow slipped and my head dropped. Our conversation was fizzling out faster than a 3 a. m. campfire and then Joe provided the spark.

“Remember Camp Cutler?”

We must have camped at Camp Cutler a hundred times, at least a dozen, as boy scouts. When he asked, “Remember Camp Cutler?” he could have been referring to anything, but there was only one thing we both were remembering.

 “Remember the Ice hill?”

“And the box?”

“What a couple of jerks.”

“Yeah.”

The hill wasn’t that long but it was long enough. It wasn’t that steep but it was steep enough. It was something else that effectively transformed an ordinary hill into something we’d reminisce about well into the next century, something we’d almost reverently refer to as, “The Ice Hill.”

Obviously, there was the ice—smooth, shear and slick enough to make you think you weren’t going down a hill but rather gliding across and right off the TV screen in a Disney cartoon.

What really made the hill special, though, was the tree, standing smack-dab, dead-center at the bottom of the hill, like an evil super-villain lurking in dark forest daring us to pass. The tree was the “SPLAT” in the cartoon that the hapless sliding character could never avoid.

Someone must have found the hill first but I don’t remember him the way I remember the hill. I can imagine him running into the campsite shouting something like—“Hey, guys, you gotta see this hill I found. Come on quick!”

Quickly dropping whatever we were doing, which could easily have been nothing more than lying on our bunks staring at the ceiling, we scurried off to see what all the commotion was about. After a few moments, we probably would have headed back to camp, when someone else shouted, “Hey guys, look at this.”

We turned in his direction only to see a large wooden crate that looked surprisingly like a coffin you might find discarded on a pauper’s hill. It could maybe hold three of us we figured—but—but no way could we go down this hill in that box without hitting that tree.

Obviously, if it hit that tree, it would hit it hard; and if it hit it hard, someone might get hurt; and if someone got hurt, we’d all be in trouble.

Yup, there wasn’t a good reason not to ride that box down that hill. It was a no-brainer.

We started picking partners for the great ride. The first group went down and to no one’s surprise, slammed solidly into the tree; but to everyone’s surprise, they survived. They dragged the box back to the top of the hill and the next group went down and the next and the next.

At some point, Joe and I went down.

I remember both of us squirming and shifting around, searching for some sense of safety and after concluding that there would be none coming, finally pushing off and hoping for the best. I closed my eyes because any two-year old will tell you, what you can’t see, can’t hurt you. My heart raced as both fear and anticipation joined us for the ride and I held my breath as we sped down the hill.

That anxiety turned to relief and elation when the inevitable collision at the bottom jerked my eyes open in time to watch our box drift harmlessly into the underbrush. We looked around, and then we looked at each other. Then we looked up to see the next group waving and coaxing us to return the box to the top.

I don’t remember how many times I went down or who I rode with on the other trips. Maybe none of us remember these minor details. Blame it on the tree.

Somewhere between the top of the hill and the bottom, we had crossed a marker as if a Back to the Future streak of lightning struck that sheet of ice. It wasn’t a line in the sand, but it was something. Maybe it was more like a crack in the sidewalk. We had gone from foolish kids to the next level of boyhood—foolish a-little-bit-older kids. Everything was right on schedule.

We continued to go down the ice hill until finally the box was no more. With each descent, it had sacrificed one board here, another board there as it continued to give up more of its self so that each of us might experience and add another chapter to our own personal story.

When we returned to the campsite, Mr. T, our leader, probably asked where we were. We probably answered, nowhere. He probably asked what we were doing and we responded, nothing. I’m sure he suspected what we knew—that we had done something, something to talk about for years to come, something to remember when there isn’t much else to talk about.

After we hung up, I thought some more about Camp Cutler, the ice hill, the box, and a time gone by.

We belonged to Abraham Lincoln School’s Troop 228. Joe, Guy, myself, the Helminski brothers, and just about every other boy in the neighborhood. Within the troop, we were assigned to smaller groups like the beaver patrol, the wolf patrol, and the bobcats.

At times, we could look very sharp, marching with the best of them; construct exquisite rope bridges; and perform community services.

At other times, we could look and act very badly, chew gum in formation, snowball and bust 20 windows at a vacant ranger’s station, make stupid noises that only boys can make, and of course, ride a box down a hill into a tree. It would be years before we’d obtain driver’s licenses and do really foolish and dangerous deeds.  What can I say? We were twelve-year olds, doing the best we could with what we had to work with.

Just as there was no way to avoid the hill once it was discovered, there was also no way to avoid the tree. We couldn’t maneuver around it. However, we could meet it head on and prove we could take it.

 

 After a while. I returned to the Olympics. They were coming up on the bobsled event and no doubt, the announcer would be ranting on about how courageous these Olympians were. I knew better. I've seen those races. There are never any trees waiting at the bottom.