Ice Boats On the Miles

"Here they come!" We ran hard, fast in the boots of our brothers, too loose, laces frayed and complicated, up the slope of a hill that marked the bitter, dreary end of the Miles. The snow had been a burdensome blanket for weeks. Too heavy. Too cold. We were red and raw and breathless in the wind before we made it. At the top my father waved to me. "Better hurry!" And I slipped once, catching myself in the snow covered ice, fingers digging, cold and deep into the wintery earth. Sharp, I gasped. Fingers cracked and bled, I stumbled on. And at the top. My God! Down below the river swayed and hugged the land. It swelled once but not now. Not yet. The river was ice. I'd never seen it froze end to end. And in the middle, a schooner! A sailor, moving about his maiden voyage, his vessel fast and sleek and strong across the icy wakes, spraying frost and hardened slush. "The first of the ice boats." Dad took my bloodied hand and grabbed a rag, but I stared down the bluff. "How's he doing that?" "Sled rails." I think it silly now, but then I admired it. Funny, what memories remain.