Faith Cole
Everyone knows that running down hills is a very foolish thing to do. This hill even had a sign. My sister Vi and I walk up to it. We glance quickly over words — “caution, 300 vertical feet, drop-offs you can’t see” — and my favorite phrase: “going down only takes a few seconds, while coming up may take an hour or more”. We had made it to the Grand Marais Log Slide.
Just over the next sand dune, we would be able to see where loggers used to slide huge, stripped trees down this perilous drop and into the pristine waters of Lake Superior. (Don’t worry, my youngest sister had thought it was where you slid down the hill in hollowed out logs, too.) Vi and I had fallen behind the rest of the family, and so, following the sign’s directions, we walked through the last little bit of sandy woods to the very peak of the hill. The skyline burst into view without warning. The sand flowed over the edge like a Saharan giant plunging down into an endless oasis. Staring out over the drop, breathless, mouth gaping, fingertips tingling, everything seeming stripped away by the intensity of the view — I looked almost straight down to the line where the sand kissed the water below. Most of the troupe had already conquered the journey and were splashing in the water below. They were willing me down to meet them, even though every instinct told me to stay rooted to the spot.
The moment of indecision lasts only that, a moment. The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I started off just ahead of Vi, waving at her to follow. The hill (at the top) was like a giant sand box. The start was just level enough that, with a little speed, I could jump forward and then let gravity take me down the slope. It felt like walking on the moon — something I, of course, had a great deal of experience doing. Adrenaline and dopamine started flooding into my brain. Suddenly, the “this is getting really dangerous” hormone (you know, the one teenagers seem to lack almost as much as good social skills) shut off completely. Each leap down the steep slope made me feel more and more like a Marvel superhero bounding across rooftops. I was also vaguely aware that I was experiencing something that inevitably comes with free fall — acceleration. Each leap became more and more thrilling. With an extra burst of exuberance, I jumped down the slope, looking a fraction of a second too late at a large rock now rushing up towards me. I twisted my body in what could only be described as a pure feat of dodge-ball and martial arts muscle memory and rolled over my shoulder into the sand — just past the brutal, potentially bone-shattering obstacle. There was no time for rejoicing however, because once I started rolling, oh baby, there was no stopping me.
Doing my best impression of a sock in a tumble dryer (a tumble dryer filled with sand and newly discovered baseball sized rocks), I careened down the slide. I realized at about roll number three, when I was just at “protect the face from the rocks” level of grace, that there was a drop coming up, and I couldn’t see how far down it went. But that wasn’t the worst of it. There was a person sitting at the edge of the cliff, back turned to me, right in my path. “AAAHHHHH”, was all I was able to shout out in warning before I flew into the air — just above the unfortunately placed traveler’s head — and over the side of the drop. Just like falling in a dream, that’s what the next few moments were like, before I, no, my open mouth got reacquainted with an ex that it would rather just be done with at this point, the sand. Oh yes, this hill had a few more rolls in store for me. Finally, from a slight leveling on part of the slope and a solid land on my backside, I came to a stop.
Laughter immediately erupted from my lips. It was more than just nervous laughter to replace reassuring words I couldn’t find for everyone watching at the bottom. It was a hearty, deep-felt expression of joy. I was alive!
Picking myself up, I finished the last 100 feet or so of the descent with an only somewhat tempered zeal. Plunging into pleasantly chilly Lake Superior washed away both the sand and the residual fluttering of my heart. The others greeted me with recreations of their reactions to my less than graceful plummet down the hill. I laughed at their good-natured teasing. I had done it though. Falling a third of the way still counts, right? Of course it does, nobody ever said you had to go down in a way that didn’t threaten your bodily safety. I don’t know if I actually could have died, but it sure felt like it during that fall. I was oddly alright with that. Enthusiasm comes with a price tag, but what I had just purchased was the thrill of being alive.