North Dakota winters generally provide opportunity to create family sledding memories. Our progeny’s favorite slope has long been on the north side of Minot High School. Inner tubes, metal or plastic saucers and old-style traditional sleds have enabled races both up and down the hills there, followed closely by hot chocolate back at home.

Sledding vehicles now are considerably advanced as compared to what was experienced in the late 1950s. During those years, Dad retrieved the relic of a sled my sister and I used from the garage attic if Kansas weather ever brought enough snowfall to cover the driveway. The exact make of sled remains unknown, since paint and lettering had long since been worn away by punishment my father inflicted on it when he was a child. The toboggan had no steering mechanism and was dependent upon any foolish rider dragging one foot or the other to avoid collisions should any tree or telephone pole jump in the way.

In some respects, the hand-me-down luge resembled those used by winter Olympians, except for the rust, and with much less mystique or speed involved. Rusty runners provided plenty of drag – even after sneaking Mom’s canning paraffin out of the kitchen to wax them.

Some years ago, sledding excitement was elevated near Big Sky, Montana. We loaded up family for a short drive past Moonlight Basin to where Spirit of the North Dog Sled Adventures was waiting for us.

At the staging area, a vehicle designed to transport dogs was situated alongside eight sleds similar to those used for Alaska’s Iditarod dogsled race from Anchorage to Nome that occurs each March. Portions of the Iditarod trail utilized for the race were traveled by the Native Alaskan peoples hundreds of years before the arrival of fur traders in the 1800s. The paths they used reached a peak between the late 1880s and the 1920s after the Alaskan gold rush began in Nome during 1898. Our ride wasn’t expected to net any gold nor endure extreme wind chills like those who race the Iditarod. In fact, cookies and hot chocolate were promised midway along the ride.

When we arrived, an organizer approached to ask the number in our group, then divided and assigned us sleds. She also explained that there wasn’t enough staff to handle all the sleds and asked if I would care to be a driver. Although my license permitted only cars and motorcycles, an uncanny resemblance to Charlton Hesston (Judah in the 1959 film, Ben-Hur) led to my assignment as pilot of the chariot we would use while Rita trekked warmly wrapped in blankets as human cargo.

Pooches were extracted one by one from the transport vehicle and connected to tow ropes. Luckily, each sled had been tethered to the transport since all dogs knew what was coming and became exceedingly anxious to get going. A canine riot ensued with ear-splitting yelps and tugs on sleds as we waited for the go signal. When it came, I released our sled’s tether after the sleigh beside us passed our lead dog. With the line of sleds moving, all dogs ran in total silence as breathtaking winter terrain slipped past.

My impeccable mushing soon elevated confidence to endure the 120-mile schlep from Anchorage to Nome. This fantasy ended abruptly, however, when I failed to apply the brakes when descending toward a sharp turn. Both sled and cargo (with blankets) disappeared into a snowbank alongside the trail. Familiar with this kind of thing, the dogs knew to stop. It wasn’t long before Rita’s opinion of my driving skills also wrecked thoughts of the Iditarod and any prospect for a Ben-Hur-style chariot race in The Colosseum.

If your sleigh ride with Kris Kringle doesn’t work out this season, consider creating a different sort of sledding memory with family near Big Sky Montana – or wherever the opportunity might be.

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, “Retirement? You Can’t HANDLE the Truth!”