Field Trip: Sledding the Hill at College Park

My body is not made for the cold. I have Raynaud’s syndrome—my blood ves­sels con­strict even at the slight­est dip in tem­per­a­ture. The con­di­tion is uncom­fort­able, so one might think my voice would join the exas­per­a­tion when read­ing win­ter weath­er fore­casts. Not so.

College Park is just out­side my door. As snowflakes lay­er into inch­es of deep drifts, I antic­i­pate the squeals of sled­ders seek­ing to defy fric­tion. They arrive short­ly after break­fast, through the day, and even by the street­light of evening. Children bun­dled tight, teens in hood­ies, sib­lings cling­ing to each oth­er. They come with clas­sic round, old-fash­ioned steel run­ners, cheap plas­tic sin­gle-seaters, and top-of-the-line resin toboggans.

All day, I watch their col­ors streak against the hue-less snow. Occasionally, a sled­der stands out. A kid on a snow­board ten­ta­tive­ly launch­es, mak­ing it to the far end of the park. Engineers test out their snow ramp, launch­ing them­selves into the air to land with a thud. An inven­tive adult descends the hill on reflec­tive win­dow insu­la­tion, look­ing like a con­ve­nience store hot­dog slid­ing across a dash­board. A less for­tu­nate fel­low rolls sev­er­al feet as his uni­corn pool inflat­able bursts two-thirds of the way down the hill.

I can’t resist the shrieks of joy any longer. I tell my hus­band to find the sled.

I pull on long under­wear, thick socks, and lay­er up to shield my body from the cold. It’s from decades of expe­ri­ence that I’ve learned how best to buffer my Raynaud’s. A hat, a scarf, and most importantly—mittens (not gloves).

We hike up the uneven ter­rain, pocked with prints from a day’s worth of sled­ders. I drag, not a snow sled, but one my hunt­ing hus­band pur­chased to haul his har­vests. He reminds me of the first year we sled­ded this hill, when the line slipped out of my hand (mit­tens are not dex­ter­ous) as I reached the crest. His laugh­ter fol­lowed me down the hill as I des­per­ate­ly tried to catch it.

Now, with a few years of expe­ri­ence, we make our way up the longer, but less steep side of the hill. The snow today is per­fect pow­der lay­ered on top of ice, lay­ered on top of snow—conditions a ski resort would envy. I posi­tion myself on a flat sur­face and tuck in. “Ready!”

My hus­band push­es against my back. I hear him grunt as his feet slip out behind him. There is noth­ing I can do as I tip for­ward onto the slope, smoothed and hard­ened by the hun­dreds of rides before me. And just like them, I scream as the speed increas­es, as bumps throw me in unex­pect­ed direc­tions, and as the cold bites into me. What a thrill it is to let go of control.

I rest in the still­ness for a moment. Then with a puff my breath returns. I wig­gle myself out of the steep-sided sled and make my way back to my hus­band. We take turns, or occa­sion­al­ly cram togeth­er. After twen­ty min­utes or so, there’s a stiff­ness to my lips as they break into a smile on my final ride.

Back at home, I pull white fin­gers out of my mit­ten. My toes tin­gle and itch as their blood ves­sels open back up. Piled under blan­kets with a hot cup of tea, I return a missed call from my aunt. “Are you pur­ple?!” she shouts before I even say hel­lo. I smile at her mock­ing con­cern and flex my fin­gers as they flush red. Her exas­per­a­tion shifts to bas­ket­ball games, gro­cery store prices, and cer­tain indi­vid­u­als. I lis­ten, but my mind remains unburdened—clear and cold, like the air out­side. I’m refreshed, despite the dis­com­fort, and remind­ed that joy is always worth seeking.