Several loud gasps came from the crowd when I was performing for the Dublin, Ireland storytelling group a few years ago.
It wasn’t a horror story, but a tale or two about life and living in Canada and a casual mention about how I enjoyed walking on lake ice in the winter. Such behaviour is unheard of in Ireland – thus the gasps. The audience thought me foolhardy and had visions of me dropping to my death into the frigid waters.
I explained the phenomenon of lake ice, its characteristics and quirks. I told them about how the lake ice freezes faster and thicker without a snow cover and how one should be mindful of springs and streams that threaten the stability of the ice. I told them about those who don’t or won’t pay attention to ice quality and how their cars, trucks, snow machines and even themselves can go under.
I explained about the early days of horse, Linn tractor – which can be found on display at the Flin Flon Station Museum – and Cat swings that hauled materials to the mine site and then on to Island Falls. Of how men were assigned to drill holes in the ice to get water that they would pour on the trails thus providing easier passage for the sled runners. Minus 40°C. What a heck of a job! But it was work and work was hard to come by in those days.
I told them about the truck hauls and how the shock waves from the truck leaving the shore could come back and make you sorry you got out of bed that morning. Of how truckers would keep the window down, hold the door open or even stand on the door sill with one foot on the gas and one hand one the steering wheel, ready to jump. I think they shuddered as I explained the difference between having the ice crack open with a fissure – wherein one had a fair chance of not going all the way in or of panning, where the vehicle would tilt on a pan of ice, slide into the lake and then the pan would level off and seal the opening. Not much hope in surviving.
It wasn’t all scary stuff. Lake ice walking on a fine, calm winter day is one of my favorite pastimes. I stop in the silence and listen for the voices of the lake spirits. One voice comes from the water moving. Another voice is a groaning like the ice is stretching. It is! The most memorable voice is heard when the temperature takes a profound drop and the ice tension creates what sounds like a rifle shot. Scared the crap out of me!
Then there’s the flashback to March of ’56 when my brother and I decided to drive down the “straight-away” gravel-haul ice road on Schist Lake. We drove onto the lake at the then TransAir water base. The ice road was smooth as the snow had been hard-packed by the gravel trucks. The call of nature came to me and I asked my brother to stop to accommodate my needs. It was a bright sunny afternoon –
a gentle breeze swept over the lake. I accomplished my task and stood still to enjoy the beauty of the place.
Did you ever stand in the stillness and notice how your hearing slowly becomes attuned to sounds otherwise unheard?
“What’s that sound?”
My brother and I walked ahead of the car to investigate. He looked at me and I looked at him. We both turned and slinked back to the car. Not a word was spoken. He carefully turned the car around and we cautiously drove back to the shore and then home. Not a word was spoken about the open water of Schist Lake we had almost driven into. No one knew we had driven down the lake. Where would they look for us when we did not return home that day?
For me? I was really glad I’d had that cup of tea!
