Ski goggles? check.
Insulated boots? check.
The strength to summit mountains and courage to defy convention? check.
The canoe we found in the barn this fall was the whale-sized diamond in a sea of debris and rot. It was lying undisturbed for who knows how long. By yesterday afternoon the farm got almost two feet of snow. The wind began to pick up, creating a woven texture to the surface of our sledding hill. We chose this day, this snowing, howling, day to bring it out into the light. Tying two tug ropes onto the stern, Edmund and I pulled the beast across the road and began up the hill. Each footstep into the heavy snow was its own triumph. We walked slowly with the ropes digging into our shoulders from the weight of the canoe. Step, step. Tug.
At the top of the hill, we turned around. Our farmhouse was in the distance, rosy-orange windows glowing from the kitchen and the wood stove inside. The Armstrong's field lay in front of us, and we discussed the fence at the bottom of the hill. Would we reach as far as that? Certainly on sleds there would be no way we would glide that far. But with a canoe....
I stepped into the boat, and Edmund was in after me.
"Get ready to jump out." he said just before we began our forward motion. And so I crouched and held onto each side. It was glorious! We cruised down the hill like a motor boat across a lake. I was expecting a terrifying episode, but the feeling was of joyful wonder, us whooping and hollering and laughing until we came to a stop much closer to the fence than we would have liked, but still in no danger.