Sledding down that hill (backwards) By Christopher Schobert I haven’t been sledding at Chestnut Ridge in Orchard Park for twelve or thirteen years, but I’m not sure I ever have to again. It’s not a question of disliking it—quite the opposite—but I know that the feeling of getting bundled up, parking myself on the sled, gazing off at the twinkling city lights in the distance, and slowly but surely building up speed will never feel like it did when I was in the single digits. For many current Western New Yorkers, or folks who grew up here, Chestnut Ridge is an indelible part of the fabric of our youth, like sitting in the orange section at the Aud or listening intently to the radio in the dark to hear whether or not we had a snow day. Not to sound too schmaltzy, but I can vividly recall one of the first times I raced down the hill on a snowy Friday evening. My parents bundled me in a snowsuit that Randy from A Christmas Story would have found constricting; my brother, being a budding pre-teen, was too cool for such shenanigans and opted for a simple ski jacket and wool hat. We rapidly shoveled dinner into our mouths, grabbed an inner tube and a couple sleds, and piled into the car. There always seemed to be a traffic backup on the curvy road that takes one into the Ridge, and this night was no exception. Any frequent Chestnut Ridge visitor knows the place always seemed incredibly busy, especially on Fridays, but there was usually plenty of room to trudge through the snow and find a safe spot. The older kids would race down the hill like Tom Reynolds to an October Surprise photo op, while every few minutes a toboggan would shoot out and scare the hell out of me. I don’t know where my father and brother ended up, but my mother and I decided to take the plunge together. After all, being only about four, the thought of sledding down on my own sounded as appealing as Saturday-morning religion classes. We plopped onto the inner tube, ready for adventure, and slowly, slowly began to creep down the hill. But alas! Something was amiss. Our speed increased at a rather alarming rate, and we ended up going a bit too fast. Really fast. So much so that snow shot into our faces and sprayed our eyes, leading to some sort of blubbery sound that emanated from the very core of my wee soul. Mom seemed to handle the whole thing better, but by the time we sputtered to a halt at the bottom of the hill, we were covered with more white stuff than the Eagles at a post-Grammy party in 1975. Sadly, the worst was to come: the long, slow trek back up the hill. Couldn’t the county have opted for a ski lift? Apparently not. Luckily, cocoa at the Casino followed. It could’ve been raw sewage and I would have gulped it, as long as it was warm. Next year, it was time to face the demon on my own. But a strange and troubling trend developed, and it stuck with me for the remainder of my adolescence. Every time I went down the hill on my inner tube, it would slowly turn, until I was facing back at my parents and brother on the top of the hill, often screaming and half-crying. Priceless! Actually, it was, or it seems that way now. It’s funny how events that were pants-wettingly scary as a kid (not literally, I’ll have you know) become precious memories years down the road. Maybe that’s why I was so saddened when Chestnut Ridge became an early casualty of Erie County’s budget woes in 2005. Of all places, how could the Ridge not be open? I mean, screw the rest of the county parks, but the Ridge? As a born Southtowner, I was appalled. Happily, this didn’t last. Some determined and PO’d locals kept right on enjoying the park even when it was closed, and after much ado, it re-opened. Not all of it, though. Last winter, County Executive Joel Giambra announced that Santa’s Park, a sweetly lame little village featuring Santa and his elves, would not receive funding. Another loss, especially since Santa’s Park had been a bastion for grade school field trips for years. But something pretty incredible happened. A group of Western New Yorkers started a website—www.SaveSantaLand.wnymedia.net—and put the call out for money and volunteers to keep Santa’s Park alive. It all transpired in a December weekend that was likely as memorable for the organizers as it was for the many kids who attended and got to sit on Santa’s lap. Santa’s Park, sledding, cocoa—I’m practically overdosing on nostalgia. But that’s a good thing in my book. It has, indeed, been a long time since I went down the hill at Chestnut Ridge, and that’s probably the case for many of my contemporaries. But I’m really pleased to know that it’s still there waiting for another visit, and that a new generation can experience the joys of sledding backwards. Christopher Schobert is associate editor of Buffalo Spree and editor of the Spree City Guide. Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top