Page 7 of Easton Island: Old-Fashioned Christmas
“An inflatable buffer might come in handy. How much do you think a buffer would cost?” Morgan asked. “Say, for example, if we offered sledding to our guests.”
“I’m not sure, but you’ll definitely want some sort of protection.”
“And maybe even additional liability insurance.” Quinn made a diving motion with her hands. “All it will take is for a guest to break an arm or a leg.”
“On second thought.” Morgan dusted her hands. “No sledding for our visitors. It’s too risky.”
“We don’t have to go,” Greg said. “I thought it would be fun. Seeing how you’re in the mood for nostalgia, downhill sledding fits the bill.”
“It certainly does. Maybe you could demonstrate, and then Quinn and I will decide if the reward is worth the risk.”
“As in potentially breaking bones,” Quinn quipped.
“You’ll do fine. I’ll show you how easy it is.” Greg grabbed hold of the rope and guided his sled to the edge of the hill. He plopped down on the wooden base and stuck his feet out in frontof him. Grabbing hold of the rope, which did double duty as the steering mechanism, he pushed off.
“Wheeeeee!” His whoop echoed loudly in the crisp winter air. Sailing down the hill, Greg picked up speed. The sled cut a path through the piles of drifting snow, sending the powdery fluff flying into the air. He hit a bump and became airborne, lifting off the seat.
Whooping even louder, he reached the bottom of the hill, heading right toward the lake.
Quinn clamped a gloved hand over her eyes. “I can’t look. Did he crash?”
“Not yet.” Morgan braced herself, waiting for him to careen onto the ice. At the last minute, he jerked the rope. The sled veered right, coming to an abrupt halt when it hit a snowbank.
Greg sprang to his feet and raised his hand, signaling victory.
“You can look now.”
Grabbing hold of the rope, Greg dragged the sled to the top of the hill, where the women stood waiting. “What a ride.”
“It looked like a blast until you became airborne and then the part where you almost skidded onto the lake,” Morgan joked.
“All you gotta do is jerk the rope either to the right or left. It’s easy. Who’s going next?”
“Morgan.” Quinn nudged her bestie toward the sled. “She has CanadianandMichigander blood, which means she’s better qualified to try downhill sledding.”
“Michigander blood,” Morgan snorted. “It has nothing to do with my genes.”
“But you have northerner instincts,” Quinn insisted. “I’m a klutz. I need another lesson before attempting this stunt…err…activity.”
“I have another sled in the carriage house’s shed,” Greg said. “What if you both go down at the same time?”
Morgan snapped her fingers. “That’s an excellent idea.”
“I’ll go get it.”
Quinn waited for Greg to hurry off. “We’re gonna die,” she said dramatically.
“Bwak…bwak.” Morgan flapped her arms, clucking loudly.
“I am not chicken.” Quinn gave her a playful shove. “However, I don’t feel like going to the ER today.”
“All you gotta do is remember to steer away from the water when you reach the bottom. I have a theory.”
“About how not to die today?”
“We’re not dying,” Morgan chuckled. “If you feel like you’re going too fast, drag your feet.”
“Drag my feet to slow my speed.” Quinn wrinkled her nose. “I suppose if kids can do this, so can we.”
