I need two hands and a foot to count the number of years it’s been since I’ve gone sledding. It was the thing to do in winter, really the only thing to do, growing up in rural Iowa. All the kids from the neighborhood, around ten of us, would gather on the street in our garish, reflective snow suits, boots, facemasks. And when we were all accounted for, ten neon astronauts would plod across town to Cemetery Hill, each one dragging their sled behind them on a string -- there were the generic, red plastic two seaters, dented metal saucers, runners that had been used by parents, the toboggan, and for the daring, ill-conceived snowboards with no feet holders.

Cemetery Hill is the only decent hill in Dows. From the top, I could view most of the small town and miles of snow covered farm land out to the interstate. I can’t imagine how we spent so many hours going up and down that hill. What I recall as a blistering dash down the slope, with the skin of my face pulled tightly back and a cloud of snow rising behind me, could really only have been a five second scrape down the bunniest of bunny hills, and that with a running start.

My friends and I in Mongolia met in exactly the same way the neighborhood kids used to meet. When the sixth swaddled one of us came through my door we headed out on our journey to the sledding hill. It’s a few miles out there. The river, steaming in the cold, was surprisingly not frozen at points. Many people haul their water from the river, so places where they’ve broken through, but left alone for a while, are covered by only a thin bandage of ice. Jess and Kelsey both busted through and got their feet wet the first time we went out. And David, who lived his whole life in L.A. and is experiencing his first winters in Mongolia, shuffled across the river, frozen with each creak and crack of the ice.

After the river, there’s a short scramble up a hillside, then a walk to the spot where the sled guy’s place is. As far as I know, there’s only one kind of sled in Mongolia. It’s welded out of pipes and scrap metal with a piece of wood wired to the top. It’s puzzling to behold, uncomfortable to sit on, but seemingly sturdy. Dragging these junkyard contraptions up the mountain was itself a trial. Despite the cold, by the time we reached the top we were sweating through our first couple layers of clothes.

Sledding in Mongolia approaches the way I recall sledding back home as a kid. The hill in Dows was called Cemetery Hill because it was next to the cemetery, but the name makes more sense for our hill out here, where I feared for my life and the lives of my friends each time a sled was set in motion. It’s as if the realistic dangers of going out on the hill have been scaled up to fit the way I perceived the dangers as a kid. I don’t believe I could have hurt myself sledding in Dows, but then the hill was towering and it seemed probable that I’d go home bleeding or with a broken set of teeth, something to make my mom ban me from ever dragging another sled out of the garage.

On Cemetary Hill Mongolia, there’s no way to clear all the boulders off the mountain and there’s enough snow to hide a significant number of them. There’s no one to yell at the kids to get out of the way. No one to tell you to stop being stupid and to sled from where you are. You can just keep going up, and so it’s immensely fun. Some of the most fun I’ve had in years. Each afternoon we’ve gone up we've only had enough time for 3 or 4 trips up and down. The cold and climbing make it difficult to do more. I haven’t bled, but the first time we went I broke my sunglasses and cell phone, tore my coat, and cracked the sled I was on. Never before have I destroyed so many things and been so happy about it.

At around six o’clock, with the sun tucked behind a mountain, it starts getting cold. The trip home is much less arduous than the trip up. There are Mongolian kids to follow, and unlike us, they know exactly where to cross the branches of the river. No one gets wet and we get home fast. At my apartment, none of our moms are there, but one of them sent us hot chocolate, and there’s no dryer, but my radiators are usually warm enough to heat up coats and socks. With a fire lit in the stove, a pirated movie bought in UB, and glass of cocoa each we settle in front of the laptop the way would have in front of the Nintendo and space heater back in Dows.