Lovers' Retreat

It was always Lovers’ Retreat Road, as far back as I can remember in my Junior High and High School days living in North Bath, just a dark stretch of road through the woods from Whiskeag Road to the North Bath Road, south to north, and back again. There were no homes out that way, no street lights, no barking dogs, not even an occasional set of head lights heading one way or the other. Not sure Lover’s Retreat was the official name, just the name given by the locals, especially the teens, with a license, a car, a girl friend, and time doing what teens with a license, a car, a girlfriend and time do along a dark stretch of road barely a mile and a half, the road less traveled, more private, less interruptions. Not that I would know from experience, mind you; I was either too young for a license, or had no car, and no girlfriend even at that point in my life. Now, it’s officially the Ridge Road, same stretch of road, though better maintained, better lit and a myriad of homes newly built on both sides; it’s hardly the place for teenage hormones running rampant.

But I digress.

Lover’s Retreat ran parallel to the 8^th fairway at the Golf Course, a fairway slopped down to the lowlands at the bottom of the hill, the “swamp” as we called it, a great place for tobogganing on a clear winter’s night. We’re not talking about sleds with runners, but a six-man toboggan, enough weight to gain speed and carry you into the swamp itself, assuming, of course, you made it down the hill, with the sled; six daredevil teens on a toboggan was a recipe for a disaster part way down, fighting to stay on and upending the sled, spilling its contents across the snow, jumping up and dashing after the sled, the sounds of laughter carried on the air. Safely to the bottom or not, the hill stretched out long and steep for the return climb, slogging through the snow, snow-covered ourselves, mittens and hats, scarves, and perhaps a lone boot, recovered in the climb, just to do it all over again. Or pitting teams against each other. “GO!” and they’re off. A push from behind to get a sled moving, or the pawing of snow and rocking of bodies to get the sled headed downhill, gaining momentum, six bodies, their legs and arms wrapped around the body in front of them, clutching each other, and the back guy maintaining some semblance of stability, steering with his hands or his feet, his body even, aiming for a straight line down the hill and across the swamp for the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, the prize but bragging rights, rubbing it in the rest of the night amidst calls for a rematch.

For those of us less inclined to race recklessly down the hill, we’d just going along for the ride, content to board the toboggan, holding tightly to the girl in front of us, a girlfriend maybe, or hoping she would become one, silently praying for the sled to tip over, taking her off the sled with you, a little roll in the snow, a little romance, a stolen kiss perhaps and the warmth of a hug or a warm hand held in yours. This was, after all, Lovers’ Retreat Road. And a warm hand held made the climb back up the hill much more bearable, a reason, perhaps, to take one’s time.

For the really brave among us, the sled of choice was the flying saucer, that concave circle of metal, dented, two handles on the sides for security and balance, for what little good they did. Sit cross legged in the saucer, get yourself moving forward using your hands, or your buddies pushing from behind, though usually pushing you off the sled or off the course, but moving downhill, just try to move in a straight line, for this sled was as unstable as it appeared, spinning, twisting, tipping, at the slightest movement. Hang on tight and hope for the best … and that no one is coming up the hill in your path, for the only way to stop was to hold on and roll over, or just bail out and let the saucer continue on its way, every man for himself. But beware, for someone may have built a bump, a jump part way down the hill, right in your path, making you, your sled at least, airborne. And for a bigger challenge, we’d link several saucers together, any way we could, and see how many people actually made it - safely - to the bottom. We were young and less afraid back then, the risks less scary, a dare always taken, ready for any challenge presented us.

These tobogganing adventures were a frequent activity for church youth groups, like mine at the First Baptist Church, rather ironic to tell people the Baptist kids were going out to Lovers’ Retreat! But we were well chaperoned, I can assure you, lest anyone try to sneak away further down Lover’ Retreat. “Back in the day,” there’d be a caravan of cars parked along the road, and we’d built up a bonfire at the top of the hill, scrap lumber and logs brought in by the fathers, and the mothers providing refreshments, hot dogs for roasting, marshmallows for toasting, hot chocolate to warm us, and a change of socks and mittens; my mother always came prepared! I think, too, she was the church worrier, keeping a careful eye on us, warning us about excess speed going downhill, rushing to make sure we weren’t hurt when she knew we’d fallen off the sled or collided with another sled, a common danger, and to keep us safe from the fire, afraid we’d fall in or get burned. With her, the hot dogs were never that hot, as we couldn’t get too close to the flames, or stay near them too long. She meant well, but … well, you got the point. And at the end of night, the chaperones would round us all up, make sure no one got left behind, that all the hats and mittens and scarves were accounted for, and that no one was trying to hide an injury needing attention or nursing a frostbitten nose.

But that all so long ago; I'm not sure anyone goes tobogganing there anymore. Access to the hill is now blocked by a home, someone's house and yard, private property not wanting teens (and chaperones) trooping through, their laughter and shouts echoing in the dark of night, and don't even ask about the bonfire! But then, gone, too, are the lovers, the licenses, cars, girlfriends, and perhaps even time , here on Ridge Road, a quick way now to get to the far reaches of North Bath. But for those of us who raced down those hills for the thrill and romance, it was always be Lovers' Retreat Road and carry for us memories of growing up in Bath, some memories to share in our old age, and others, well, perhaps, best kept to ourselves.

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