My father's rules were short and simple -- no overhanging arms or legs (unless you wanted to create drag or break), no bailing, screaming was mandatory. And the toboggan - Canadian made of course. I don't remember the brand, but I suspect that it was purchased new from Canadian Tire (I have a vague recollection of one under the Christmas tree). It would have been made of ash -- first blonde, then aging to a mellow amber, and the cushion was red plaid canvas that did little to cushion the bumps and thumps as we slid across rock and branch and ice chunks. My father was maniacal about waxing. The evening before an outing he would disappear to the basement and in the glow of his workshop light, apply ski wax from an assortment of tins, colored to indicate the snow conditions that would challenge us.
Our family tobogganing history came to an abrupt end, the winter of 1968 -- on New Years Day to be exact. All conditions aligned towards the outcome of that day. We tried a new hill -- an Everest-like slope overlooking the Humber Sewage Treatment plant. The snow was hard packed tending towards ice, which worsened as the day progressed and the hill was made slick by repeated runs. And at the base of the hill -- a mound of snow cleared from the parking lot and deposited by the plow. On the last descent of the day, my brother, despite my father's new rule -- only go half way up -- insisted we summit. Little sister that I was, and not wanting to appear to be a sissy, I followed. In memory, I can see it unfold. The push-off, the initial jolt of fear as we gathered speed, attempting to break, losing grip of my brother's parka, and then bailing and watching from my position half way down the hill as my brother continued to plummet, hit the snowbank at the bottom and then launch into the air. All adult heads turned as motion slowed and he seemed suspended there, Peter Pan of the toboggan hill, a blue blotch of snow suit against the steely grey city sky, not yet descending.
My brother and our family survived the day, the bump on the head, the drama of a hospital stay, but we never tobogganed again. Mother's order was given with an unmovable resolve and it struck fear in our hearts.
Some 40 plus years later, I broke the rule by tobogganing once more. That childhood prohibition must have been powerful, because the whole experience felt a little bit dangerous and illicit. My ride wasn't on a wooden toboggan -- it was a fast, plastic sheet and the snowy hill was in Ottawa. But the sounds and the view and feeling were the same. Children in red mittens and toques and swishing apparel, fathers acting like kids, and me holding on tight to the man in my life, tucking my limbs and letting out at the top of my lungs, the obligatory, joyous, yelp and squeal.
As for Canadian made toboggans -- there are still some wonderful manufacturers and suppliers. I don't have small children or go tobogganing frequently enough to justify the expense and the storage, but in my imagination, one sits in my basement, waiting to be waxed, waiting for the perfect snow day, waiting to run on some perfect hill.
Check out:
A History of the Canadian Toboggan
Canadian Outdoor Equipment
A very cool company featuring great items for outdoor adventures, many of which are made in Canada -- including toboggans. They also promote a philosophy of fair labour practices and nature conservancy.
Mastodon Toboggans
Kaufmann Mercantile -- US Company, Canadian Toboggan
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