How I came to dislike snow!

As a kid growing up in Palouse, I loved the snow. Snow meant sledding, and we had a couple of great runs, one in town and the other on the outskirts.

The one in town was from the top of North Hill that wound its way through the residential section and ended up on Main Street. It was probably a quarter mile long, and in places steep.

Our parents or some of the kids would post themselves at intersections to make sure that traffic wouldn’t interfere with sledding.

There was always someone who would furnish hot chocolate and a treat during the evening, and sometimes a parent with a pickup would load us up at the end of the run and take us back to the top for another go at it.

It was a case of showing off our Flexible Flyers.

The other run was for bobsleds and was in a field we called Dill’s Hill, on the other side of North Hill. We made our own bobsleds out of tin roofing by bending the front up and hanging on to the sides.

Once the snow was packed, it was quite a ride.

Then later, after becoming an adult, we settled in Grand Coulee. That was back in 1953-55, and Martin Road became my sledding hill; we lived only a block away and looked forward to the snow.

Fast forward a bit, and this is how my dislike for snow started.

I was writing for the Idaho Statesman in Boise and had arranged to go up to Bogus Basin ski area to do a story on skiing.

Then the road, about 12 miles north of Boise, was narrow and usually unattended. I had made arrangements and gotten the promise that they would provide everything I needed to do my story.

I went by ski bus so I wouldn’t have to drive, and soon after arriving I was equipped with ski boots, skis, and the usual cold-weather ware.

We went to the rope tow, where we received about a half hour of instruction and messed around for a while. Then they took me to the highest chair lift, and I was on my way.

I got off the chair lift and looked down. To me, the hill looked like the drop off at the Grand Canyon. Why they thought I would be equipped to get down off the hill without killing myself was beyond me.

I pointed my skis across the hill and went until I piled up, and then did the same the other way. I was exhausted and only about 40 feet from the top. I did this several times and attracted the interest of someone who reported that there was a person having trouble on the hill. If I hadn’t received help, I still might be trying to get off that hill.

They sent the rescue team up with a sled to get me off the hill.

That was when I started disliking snow, and it continues to this day.

They loaded me in and skied me down the hill, the rescue team laughing and my being embarrassed.

Some story!

When I got to the bottom, there was somewhat of a celebration because I was no longer a hazard to those who were using the hill.

About that time, I was asked if I would drive a man to the hospital who had broken his leg. I was to drive his car, which I did with the man sprawled out in the back seat, crying out every time I hit a bump or slid on the slippery road.

That sealed my snow days.

So you can imagine how I have disliked February and the beginning of March.