Winters in the High country can be a lot of
fun for young, and young at heart, as well.
As some of us get a little age on us,
however, we’re not as brave and adventurous as we once were.
When my husband, Sam, and I first moved our
family to the mountains, we played in the snow with the kids and like kids and
didn’t think twice of riding aimlessly down the steep hills on big inner tubes.
Spinning around in those big rubber
containers, we rarely gave a though to potential harm or danger.
We loved snow. I still do, but I don’t
“play” in it, anymore.
The cold and snowy winter of 1977 is one
that stands out vividly in my mind as one of the reasons why I don’t.
Sam and I were honored to accept an
invitation to “go sledding” with one of our customers and his friends who
frequented our country café.
We thought it would be great way to get
better acquainted and it was, for sure.
After we closed the café one evening, we
joined a pick-up full of pleasure seekers and headed up North Fork Road onto
Warren Hollow Road.
At first, Sam and I just watched as
everyone took turns riding down the steep road and walking back up to where we
waited.
“Now, it’s your turn,” I remember someone
saying, as others chimed in. they didn’t want to have all the fun, I though.
“I can’t,” I said. “There’s only one sled
up here.”
That seemed like a good reason to decline
the offer. Sam didn’t seem overjoyed with the idea, either. Both of us were
probably thinking about the long drop-off on one side of the road that we’d
noticed on the way up.
Our host quickly informed us that we didn’t
need more than one sled. “Ride down with Sam,” he said, to which I replied,
“There’s not enough room.”
He wasn’t to be outdone and instructed us
to double up. I thought surely, he was kidding, but he was not and proceeded to
show me exactly how to accomplish my fist sledding experience while laying flat
on my husband’s back.
“At least, this way” Sam said, “we can see
where we’re headed.”
That made sense, as we both recalled our
previous downhill and backward inner tube experiences.
So, there we were, ready for actions, as
our new friends told me to hold on tight, so Sam wouldn’t lose me. I remember
well how I threw my arms around his neck and locked my hands together. Bless
his heart.
As we began to slowly descend, I said, “This
is fun, Sam.”
He answered, “It could be fun if I knew how
to guide this thing. I can’t guide it, Mama.”
Just as he spoke those words, he sled had
picked up speed. Sam screamed, “ We ’re going to die, Mama! We’re going to die
young and soon!”
I hollered back at him, “Just slow down,
you don’t drive this fast in the car!”
“I can’t slow down,” he yelled back. I
began to scream, too.
I knew I should remove my arms from the stranglehold
I had around his neck, so he could breathe easier, but I was afraid to let go.
After all, I had been told to hold on real tight.
My mind filled with thoughts of our
children and the wonderful years we had shred. I also knew the drop-off wasn’t
far away.
“Had we served our last meal in the café?
Our friendly customers loved our biscuits and gravy and burgers. Who would
serve them if we weren’t there,” I wondered. “Would the service be as good?”
My thoughts came to a half at the same time
the sled turned and brought us to a hard and abrupt stop into the bank.
When my head cleared, I let go of Sam and
we got off sled, checking to see if we had lost any teeth.
“What a ride,” I said. And it was our first
and our last.
Though the years, we shared many more good
times with friends we made that night. And, more that once, we talked about
excitement of sledding on Warren Holler Road.
