Some days, it is the final pitch of the north face of the Eiger in the Jungfrau region of the Bernese alps — during an ice storm, with food running low, and all hope of rescue fading fast, with but one piton left on your climbing belt. Don’t look down. The way to safety is up, to the summit.
On other days, it is the last treacherous, bleak, frostbitten whiteout mile of the first ever solo ski expedition to the South Pole. Or North Pole. Or it is a deep, dark Khumbu Glacier crevasse dropping into the bowels of remotest Nepal. Or it could be the iceberg infested Northwest Passage to … delight. The only threat of rescue comes from impending spring.
It is all these, and also a humble, short slippery slope and the winter avatar of imaginative recess invention. In reality, it is a mere patch of frozen hillside on the school playground. What fun is reality.
At lunch recess, when all 54 kids in the school glom together for a group slide down the little hill, they look like seals herding up on an arctic ledge for warmth and safety. No doubt, polar bears and ravenous tiger sharks are lurking at the bottom of the hill, in the deep water, waiting for the poor unwary or unwise lone pup to drop off. A frisson of terror — all the better! Delight can be a shriek as well as laughter.
The lower the temperature, the better the slide, and the more formidable the imaginary recess obstacles. Why settle for the real wind chill — a mere minus 20 — when you can be Ernest Shackleton or Sir Edmund Hillary approaching the limits of human endurance, urged on to the prize at the pole, or forced back to base camp by the highest wind speed ever recorded by man, or teacher, frozen to the spot on playground duty.
“Help!” Hands stretch to span the crevasse, and the intrepid rescue party hauls another arctic explorer to safety. No big deal. A daily event, before snack time.
Even superheroes show up on the slope from time to time. “My special super gloves are saving me,” Drake said one day, holding his Spiderman-clad hand aloft, his left-hand web holding him fast to the villainously slick route — the only route — to safety.
“Help! Save me!” Why is peril so much fun? “Hold on to me!” Why is rescue so much fun? “Run!” Why is retreat from danger so much fun? It just is.
And then there are the flat and slippery surfaces, like the diminutive ice rink we made on the kickball lawn, that is finally smooth and solid and ready for play. The broomball game will now be in full swing at lunch recess. This slippery arena is a great equalizer of athletic abilities. First-grader Tyler has every bit as much effectiveness as seventh-grader Big Matthew. No one has traction; everyone swings and misses with their brooms; there are no breakaway plays or icing. Slap shot wind-up? Ha! The goals are frozen milk jugs. The game is a choppy ballet of giggles custom made for play-by-play and rink-side color commentary. And someone always obliges.
“Stearns passing up the middle, blocked by Koos, stolen by Smith. A shot from the blue line by Wood! Kick-save… McFadden! Cleared by Orr to Esposito.” Orr? Esposito? Just a flashback to my generation Boston Bruins.
“Another spectacular save by the veteran goalie from Searsport.”
“Yes, Chris, she really is having a terrific season here in the School Yard Hockey League.”
True, Mrs. McFadden is a teacher, and she has brought her snowmobile suit to school today in order to play along.
“It’s been great for this fledgling club to have the benefit of such experience and talent. As good on defense as on … the multiplication tables.”
“There’s even talk of Stanley Cup possibilities this year …”
“… And there should be! The Cougars are playing great broomball; they’ve filled the gaps in their defensive positions, found a reliable scorer, and have a schedule that has front-loaded the most difficult teams on this peninsula recess league.”
“Now if they can just get by those Sedgwick Sabres.”
“Unfortunately, their best forward is stuck on an expedition — to the north face of the Eiger.”
Todd R. Nelson is a retired school principal. He lives in Penobscot.