Butt-Buster Booger Hill

This winter being such a snowy one, a tale of woe and tragedy from my childhood has been coming to mind quite frequently... My father is going to be endlessly surprised and tickled by the fact that I've chosen to share this, but I feel I must get this story out, so that future generations may benefit from my distress.

I have no idea how old I was when these terrible events transpired. I must have been no more than eight. I would hope so, anyway; you'll understand as you read on.

We had just gotten a good little snowstorm, and my family was heading out for a day of sledding. With blue plastic toboggans and Thermos of hot chocolate in tow, we headed out to the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area, where dwells a fantastic hill. My little sister and I vibrated with ill-contained glee and excitement.

Now, before I continue, I need to impress upon you, my precious readers, just what this hill entails. It is steep. I mean epic steep. In snow, most cars cannot climb the road up it. It is also heavily wooded in parts. A stream lies at the bottom of it. And as I discovered, above all, it is a fickle mistress.

When we arrived, my parents marched us up the hill in a safe spot, right near the road. The trees were a little thinner there, and there were a couple of clear paths to sled down. No need to steer, really, just kick off and slide down. These paths were fantastic for little Melissa and littler Jenny... especially the one that let out onto the snow-covered road, and offered a particularly lengthy ride. Truly bliss for two little be-mittened girls.

But not enough for the mad mountain man... my father.

This barbarian, with his animalistic desire for adrenaline, wanted... nay! Needed to find a grander adventure than these bunny slopes. Fervor lighting his eyes and spittle flecking his beard, he found an optimal spot. Trees barred the way, treacherous obstacles to maneuver about. Beyond that, the route was shrouded in mystery. Uncertainty was the only certainty on this deranged descent. He had to do it.

But he would not be going alone.

Swept up in his frenzy, innocent, unsuspecting, and trusting, I found myself in front of my dad on the sled, pointed down a new direction. "It's going to be fun!" my father promised. "You're going to love it!" I wonder to this day if he truly believed that, and that the tragedy was all just an accident... But I tend to think it was the sickness in his brain that spoke those words.

The ride started out just fine. Weaving through the trees, my own infant addiction to adrenaline was being fed; I was thrilled. We picked up speed...

...and then... the worst.

I don't know if it was root or rock, but whatever we hit sent us airborne. My father, heavier than I, was deposited squarely (and I almost hope painfully) on his posterior in the snow. This left me, careening even faster now that I was alone, hurtling through the trees toward my certain demise. It was then I saw the stream approaching at break-neck speed... But before that lay the branch. Such an enormous branch I had never seen before; what behemoth of a tree could have sprouted that monstrosity?

But I didn't have time to think of these things at that moment. Before I could react, the sled hit the branch, instantly dropping from the speed of sound to a dead stop. However, I was not so fortunate. The branch had two effects on me. Firstly, the sudden decrease in speed caused the contents of my rather stuffy sinuses to empty all down my face. And secondly, I was launched ass-first into that barely-frozen stream.

By some miracle, I remained relatively dry, aside from the torrents of snot the had been knocked out of me. The soreness, both of body and ego, was where the real damage had been done. As I laid there, shocked and crying, I looked up to see...

...my devoted father...

...laughing his ass off.

The moral of this story, children? Dads are dicks!