In the late 1920s and early 1930s, every winter Thursday afternoon an iced-over downtown Bridge Street was cordoned off while Charlevoix turned into whiz-bang bobsled run. The whole town closed up shop, even the schools. Away they flew down the slick south hill, through town, and over the channel until the north hill’s rise slowed their momentum. The goal was to top the hill at Dixon Avenue. Ed O’Neill’s taxi retrieved the larger sleds while riders of the smaller ones walked back through town with sleds in tow, trudged up the hill, piled on, and did it again. Could anything be more simple, more fun?