Legends of Mount Trashmore

Mount Trashmore wasn’t on any official map, but to those of us growing up on the south side of Evanston, it might as well have been a national monument. Rising from the otherwise flat landscape, it was a massive hill of repurposed landfill, crowned with the promise of adventure. In the winter, it was the place to be for tobogganing—the thrill of speeding down the snowy incline only matched by the hilarity of crashing into the occasional poorly-built jump. But less know was its man-made steel slide, a glistening, gravity-defying rocket ship for sleds. If you waxed your sled enough, you could hit speeds that felt like something out of Christmas Vacation.

But summer at Mount Trashmore was where legends were made. Without snow to cushion your exploits, you were left with dirt, grass, and a sprinkle of bravery. We’d push our bikes up the steep slope, a slow and sweaty procession that tested your stamina. Once at the top, though, all discomfort was forgotten. Standing there, bike at your side, you were king of the world. The view seemed endless, and the ride down felt even longer. The descent was wild and unpredictable—grass, dirt, and the occasional hidden hole kept your heart in your throat. But the rush of dopamine and adrenaline made every risk worth it. It was a rite of passage, an unspoken initiation into the ranks of neighborhood daredevils.

One unforgettable summer day, my brother and our friend Tim decided it was time to up the ante. The hill wasn’t enough. No, we had to conquer the steel slide—with our bikes. It seemed so perfect. Carrying our hefty Schwinn Varsity bikes up those stairs was no easy feat, but the promise of glory pulled us onward. At the top, the slide looked steeper than we remembered in the winter. The groove at the bottom, worn deep by countless sleds, seemed ominous. And then there was the mud, a treacherous obstacle that added just the right amount of danger.

Still, we had seen the older kids do it, and if they could, so could we. I followed my brother’s lead. Sitting astride my bike, staring down that shiny slide, I took a deep breath and launched myself into the unknown. The ride was glorious! Fast, uncontrollable, and utterly exhilarating. The groove at the bottom stole my breath, but I made it—we all did. For those brief moments, we weren’t just kids anymore. We were fearless, unstoppable badasses.

Of course, the second ride down was another story. This time, I hit the slide harder and faster. Halfway down, my front wheel caught the edge of the muddy groove. The bike twisted, and I flew. I landed flat on my back, dazed, while my bike somersaulted above me. For a split second, I watched as the seat came hurtling toward my face, missing me by an inch. Lying there, covered in mud, I did a quick inventory of my limbs. Everything seemed intact. My friends’ laughter echoed around me, the universal language of boys witnessing an epic wipeout.

Then, in the distance, a figure appeared, running toward us. Was it the police? We’d had run-ins with them, usually getting kicked off the hill. But no, it was my mom. Her voice cut through the chaos, firm and unyielding: “Stop! Someone’s going to get hurt!” We protested, of course. What did she mean, “someone could get hurt”? This was adventure! But her word was law, and we begrudgingly left Mount Trashmore that day.

Looking back, I’m grateful she came. Maybe we would’ve been fine, or maybe the next crash wouldn’t have been so lucky. Either way, that day lives on in my memory as a testament to the wild energy of youth. Sometimes I wish I could summon that reckless abandon again, the pure joy of hurtling down a hill without a thought for the consequences.

My dad always said, “Life is like a roller coaster. You scream and laugh all the way through while going up and down life’s hills. But when you come into the station, you always say, ‘Let’s go again.’”

Mount Trashmore was our roller coaster, and for a brief, muddy moment, we owned the ride.