We've been coming up to Big Bear every year for the past nine years.
Each year, N has been terrified of sledding down the hill across from the house we stay in.
Most years, he has refused to even get on a sled once the entire weekend.
Every now and again, he's agreed to go on with Baroy. Once. Only.
Last year, just days before we came up here, he had surgery for an undescended testicle. Obviously, he wasn't allowed to sled. In classic contrary kid fashion, he spent the entire time complaining about the restriction. We just rolled our eyes.
This year, freed from the threat of popped stitches and uncontrolled bleeding, he insisted he was planning to spend the entire weekend making up for what he missed last year. Again, we rolled our eyes. We knew better.
We were so very, very wrong.
Neither crash, nor 62nd crash, nor sled washed out to sea (OK, lake...sticklers) could stop this child.
|(Yes, that is specifically why we couldn't let him sled last year. Can you imagine?)|
|Somehow or other, they managed to get that sled back. I'm not sure i want to know.|
He was the first over the father-built moguls, the first up the hill after each run, and the last in the house after each excursion out.
His sister had a blast, too. But that's par for her course.
But for him? For us? It was a Big Bear Miracle.