My last story involving my 1957 Chev, reminded me of another occasion of leisure time during that winter of 1968.
A group of us would meet up Secrest, at a flat area just west of the entry of the Boy Scout Camp main gate. About 100 yards south of the government graveled road was a high hill. We would park our cars well away from the hill because it was that hill that we used to toboggan on.
The trees had been cleared half way up, but the faller had left the stumps two feet high. There was enough space between the stumps to negotiate a safe and fun run down to the bottom.
Not many of us had sophisticated toboggans. Wally had made one for me from a wooden cheese box and a length of plywood. It was a work of art that took a lot of abuse for I wasn’t the only one to use it.
One of our crowd was Wayne Redenbach. He was one of the few who had a proper factory built toboggan.
When he and his passenger started the run, everything was ok, until the passenger fell off and redirected the sled. That store bought missile really picked up speed with only one person on it. That is, until it hit the stump. Then it stopped dead! Wayne flew over the stump and landed head first in a snow bank buried up to his shoulders with his legs and feet straight up above him. He remained there for a few moments then toppled over onto his back. When he sat up, every orifice was caked in snow.
He seemed to be in a bit of a daze, but at least he could walk. The crash didn’t damage his sled, but he had had enough for the day and wisely returned to his car.
Concussions were undiagnosed in those days, and I had a few of my own, but those stories are for another day.