The Red Sled Story

The Inspiration Behind the Name

I slipped into my boots, the lace-ends frayed from winter after winter of snowy hikes through the woods and adventures to the frozen lakeside at my Nana’s. Their worn, gray wool liners were still damp from my trip to the sledding hill the day before.

I walked down the street to our neighborhood hill, the fresh layer of frost crunching beneath my boot soles. My red sled floated behind me, and I gave it a love-tug so it could glide beside me.

It was just a simple, plastic red sled, the bottom of it molded with grooves that ran its length. There was room to stretch out my legs or to seat another rider, legs hugged tight around their middle. It was perfect. No bells and whistles, but man did it fly.

The anticipation grew in my center and I picked up my pace, my clompy boots feeling heavier under the new spring in my step. The short trail to the hill was tucked behind the mailboxes, and we bounded over the snowbank together, hand-in-rope. I sunk in to my ankles, my breath puffing little clouds of white. We were almost there. We navigated the snow-covered trail and finally, we reached it. The top of the hill. Our hill.

We tobogganed down, again and again, flying together over the fresh powder. We went faster and faster, and I’m certain with each run we set a new world record of some sort. After a dozen times down, we also established a more scenic route. This track required a bit of steering through some brush, but it was a terrific complement to the “black diamond” of Logan Lane.

We spent our afternoon at the beloved hill, a happy blur of red whipping down and dodging branches. I only paused occasionally between runs to shovel a mittful of snow into my mouth, the cool nature-made clump making me feel like a true lady of the woods.

Time passed quick. I could feel my cheeks beginning to chill and looked up toward the winter sun. It already hung low in the western sky, its light a glowing lantern behind the sheath of early evening clouds. We had to be home before dark, I reminded myself. Maybe when I was a grown-up, I thought, I could sled after dinner.

We sled down once more, then started for the trail, trudging back toward the mailboxes. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I looked back at the hill, the parallel grooves packed into the snow, smooth and slick, from our countless glides down. I sighed. But as soon as I felt sad to leave, excitement swirled through me like snowflakes stirred up in a magical snow globe.

Tomorrow, I thought. My red sled and I would be back tomorrow.

And we were.