Ice magic

The past several weeks have been full of ice. With sub-freezing days and nights in the single digits, I’ve watched as the open waters of our stretch of French Creek have shrunk to just a narrow channel. In one spot, where the current slows as it approaches a big bend, the creek is completely frozen over. Here I can see the crisp outline of deer tracks in a recently deposited coating of snow. It's becoming more rare that we see prolonged, deep cold like this, so I’ve been reveling in it as much as possible.

The slow, persistent encroachment of ice conjures up a scene from my childhood. My dad loved the outdoors and took advantage of every opportunity to spend time there, bringing us kids along with him. In the summer it was swimming, hiking, picnics, and tennis. In the winter he took us sledding and ice skating. He once even tried flooding a portion of our backyard to make a mini skating rink.

The home rink didn’t turn out as well as my dad had hoped, but that was okay. Just a few miles away was Clarks Pond, a large-ish body of water situated in a wild area with no houses or other buildings nearby; being there felt deliciously remote and adventurous. I have no idea who owned it. I don’t think it even occurred to me to think about it, other than to be grateful that the property owner was generous enough to let people skate there. Or maybe my dad was a friend of his?

At any rate, by some mysterious system, my dad knew when the ice on the pond was thick enough to support the weight of humans. We’d grab our skates and pile into the car for the 10-minute drive. A large log on the shore made a perfect spot to lace up. I wasn’t a great skater, but it didn’t matter; I loved being outdoors as much as my dad. And I was good enough to get where I wanted, though I usually stayed safely close to the pond's edges, never completely trusting the ice far out in the center. My greater concern, though, was that my toes always quickly got numb, when no one else’s feet seemed to be affected.  

Freezing toes aside, my specific memory is of one deeply cold winter. It was so cold and for so long that the Mill River, which feeds the pond, froze over. The deep freeze yielded a glassy, unmarred surface that wound up and away from the pond, calling us to follow it.

In all the years since that day I have never forgotten the fairytale feeling of leaving the broad, open pond and setting blades onto this smooth, magical path through the woods where dense trees hugged the shoreline. The winding river of ice was dark but clear. The nascent botanist in me paused again and again to drop to my hands and knees to peer at last autumn’s leaves suspended in the transparent ice like a still life painting. By the positioning of the leaves, I could tell how deep the water was—deeper than I would have imagined. My feet were probably numb with cold; if so, I don’t remember being aware of it. The whole experience was pure magic and I wanted it to go on forever.

I’m older now, but my delight in snow and ice persists. I still love to foray out into the cold. I can still wonder at how, day by day, a river can slow until it hardens over. And I still remember childhood winters, when we literally walked on water.