I’m holding up the line. Perched atop a shaggy white slope, with a lime-green plastic disc in my freezing, ungloved hands, I stare down a ribbon of ice where sledders have already packed down the snow. Children glare at me, unaware that their parkas don’t fit. Neither does mine, honestly, but the difference is they don’t care. Elsewhere on the hillside, more kids zip down other trails just like they breathe: without thinking. Unlike them, I continue to think. The scent of pine hangs in the air. When I finally succumb, I sit on the saucer and launch myself like an Olympic luger. At least that’s my intention.
My sled is round and dimpled, about two feet across, with upturned edges and cutout grips on either side. It smells like new plastic and looks like an old garbage can lid. It’s just thick enough to feel solid, with tiny ridges ringing the “Flexible Flyer” label. What it lacks, compared to the other sleds that I did not choose off the shelf at the store, is any kind of steering mechanism. No rope, no rails, no channels or pointy parts. Just gravity and momentum, which sounded great in the store and less ideal on the side of a snowy mountain. Still, it goes.
The going is slow, at first, plastic scraping against the ice. I paddle, but it’s not pretty. Manageable, I think, for a Florida kid who’s never been on a sled. Then, out of nowhere, we’re moving. Me and the disc. We skim over packed snow like a rock skipping across still water. Bumps send me airborne and thumps bring us back together. Tears flow as cold air rushes into my eyes. The kids disappear, leaving me only sky, snow, trees, rocks and my little circle of safety. The ground churns like the ocean. Or maybe that’s just me.
I try to be a stable person. I mean, I work at it. That often means trading spontaneity for a sense of control and direction. But there are times when life reminds us how powerless we are. For example: Halfway down the hill, as my world blurs into a white rustling and rippling sensation, my senses in a blender, the disc itself starts to circle. I try, but I can’t hold it steady. Soon I’m facing uphill with no idea what’s waiting behind me. I dig in my boots like anchors, but it’s useless. I surrender.
There is nothing but the moment. It’s terrifying. And it’s delightful.
Then it’s over. The saucer stops with a lurch and sends me tumbling toward my wife’s feet. “I’m fine,” I tell her, brushing ice from my sopping jeans — another rookie mistake. I scoop up a handful of powder and let it sift like sand through my aching pink fingers. Then I chase down my trusty green Flexible Flyer, which is now scratched up like a scraped knee, but otherwise fully itself, neither improved nor diminished, and together we head back up the hill.
This story appears in the December 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.