Dropping Things From High Places

Dear Ian:
In the old Smithville neighborhood, probably when we were about 13 or 14, a bunch of us boys discovered an old DM&IR (Duluth-Mesabi & Iron Range) railroad trestle. The trestle bridged a gap over a small "canyon" that had been cut through the granite by either the retreat of the ice age or a spring fed stream or a combination of both. I am no geologist, so your guess is as good as mine.

I really don't know how far from ground level the train tracks really were. I do know that we used to try to estimate the distance by spitting over the edge. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, etc." We didn't know then that objects fell at 32 ft/sec/sec. We didn't know about terminal velocity or wind resistance. We did know that it took an awfully long time for spit to hit the rocks below.

Sooner, if not later, we also decided that it would be great fun to drop rocks from the trestle ledge. The rocks grew increasing bigger and the sound of the impact grew increasing more impressive.

It may or may not have been me, so I can't take full credit, but I know at some point someone threw out the suggestion of a bowling ball. Now, coming from the neighborhood that we did, a bowling ball was really not that hard to come by. Finding a bowling ball that would not be missed by a rather angry father, that was a different story.

Word spread quickly of the impending bowling ball drop. By the Saturday afternoon of "D-Day," there had to be at least 40 boys of all age ranges who had gathered at the trestle, both above and below.

When the ball was released, we really had no idea how it would bounce or if it would bounce. We really, kind of, hoped that it would shatter. I think I imagined that it would contain a sugary core, not unlike a jaw breaker.

Todd and I chucked the thing over the side and quickly lay on our bellies, heads hung over the side of the trestle, anxious to observe our handiwork.

Well, it bounced. And bounced. And ricocheted. I think the kid that it nearly hit was named Brian. Or Jeff. Maybe Chris. Or all three. Truth be told, we probably could have killed a kid that day with a bowling ball.

We through a lot of things over the side of that trestle that summer. A lot of G.I. Joe dolls with home-made parachutes got hung up in the trees alongside the creek bed. A lot of tennis balls bounced their way into oblivion. Paint filled water bombs became psychedelic Rorschach tests. Melons, well melons were just simply fantastic.

When that summer ended, we left pretty satisfied that we had managed to throw every conceviable object over the side, noting each "splash appeal" with boyish enthusiasm and, yes, glee.

I don't think that many of us returned the summer after that. Maybe we moved on to other things, more dangerous, more exilherating. Or maybe, sadly, we outgrew our boyish curiosities.