Finding a Spot For the Tent


   Matches? Did I pack matches? Of course, I know I packed matches - I packed them in three different containers, in three different places. Now, where did I pack them?

   We had arrived at our destination lake in the middle of the afternoon. We knew we had lots of time to explore, to check out to possible portages for the next day, to find the very best campsite on the little lake. Over the course of a few hours, we had passed three or four likely places - they looked great from the canoe.

   Late in the afternoon, well, it was probably early evening by this point, we picked out what we thought would be the best campsite, and stopped in for a look. Nice morning site it would be - lots of room for Kate to run around - good cooking area - but no place to put the tent. Surely folks had camped here before, but the only approximation of a tent site was a rock strewn bed of moss. It was already soaked from the thunderstorm that had passed through earlier in the day.

   No problem, we just scooted across the bay to a wonderful open expanse of smooth bedrock. It would catch the last of the evening sun - it had a great swimming area - fine place to build the fire. Kate had a wonderful time running up and down the glacier polished bedrock. The only place to put the tent was still being pounded by the fierce west wind.

   We paddled some more, directly into that wind, stopping at three more "likely" places. No luck. Each spot we looked at was worst than the one before. The sun dropped ever lower in the sky. Big black clouds promised rain sometime before dark.

   We stopped one more time, Allan looked to the west, I looked to the east. There wasn't much of anything to recommend this place, but we were getting hungry so we decided to make dinner there. I would get the fire going and supper cooked while Allan ventured out in the canoe on his own to find a good place to put the tent.

   Matches? Now I remember, one pack was tucked in a tiny plastic bag in my hat! I gathered twigs and some wood, but there wasn't a birch tree to be found - no fallen trees to provide the bark I usually used to light our evening campfire. I tried some dead grasses, but they were damp. So were the twigs, and all the wood.

   The first campfire of the year and I had forgotten how to do everything. I had already used half the matches in the pack with no hint of success when it began to rain. I ran for the packs, pulled them up under a couple of cedar trees, pulled out the tarp, got the girls to tuck under it while I tried to get it tied up to the trees.

   While we waited for the shower to pass, I found my knife and a piece of cedar driftwood. I started to make some shavings, looking for bits of dry wood in the middle. We had been parked for 45 minutes, and were no closer to supper than when we landed. As I whittled, I noticed my half-pack of matches sitting soaked on the rock by the firepit.

   A beautiful double rainbow appeared on the not too distant shore. I could see where the pot of gold would be - but it wasn't going to have a flat place to put the tent. The rainbows stayed for along time while we waited for the sun to push the clouds away.

   At long last, Allan returned with good news. Just a half kilometer away was a small island that had everything we needed: an almost flat, well protected place for the tent, a good place to hoist the tarp to make our kitchen, lots of room for the kids to run around, good blueberries!

   So began the first of many excursions into the wilds the summer of 2001- I wouldn't miss a minute of it for anything!

Received August 2, 2010

Fire and Rain

   Early June, quiet morning. A gentle rain taps on the maple leaves outside my window. Rain! How we need it! We’ve had a few days of rain in the past two weeks, but not nearly enough to wet the forest floor. Let it rain some more!

   Forest fires are springing up everywhere. A couple of them within 10 kilometres of my little log cabin in the woods. These have been small fires, started by lighting. Many of these lightning fires appear long after the storm, after smouldering for days in the dry duff of the forest floor. Thank goodness for the dedication of the flying fire fighters in airplanes and helicopters!

   Lightning storms are awesome. Truly, they fill me with awe. There is such a thrill to see the brilliance of the light, to hear the shattering rolls of thunder. One, two, three, fou……….boom! That one hit just a kilometre away! I enjoy these storms immensely. But these days I have a bit of fear mixed in there too – for the fires that may be starting.

   That joy of thunderstorms takes me back to being 7 years old. I remember leaning on the wide windowsills of our big old brick house. We worried about the lightning ‘getting us’ through the windows, but we just had to watch the storms. We were drawn to the windows like moths to the flame. We were only lightly reassured by the three lightning rods on the roof (does anyone have lightning rods anymore?)

   Now, more than fifty years later, I am still drawn by the power of the storm. I love to hear the storm’s approach. I still count the seconds between the flash and the roar. I watch spellbound, anticipating the next flash, scanning the sky, hoping that I’ll be looking in the right direction when it hits.

   The rain comes down fiercely, with a force that flattens the surface of the lake. The rain pelts the lake, the ground, and the rooftop with a hammering force. The noise is almost deafening. I feel refreshed as the earth soaks up this moisture. I can almost feel the plants taking in a long, cool drink of water.

    When my daughters were young, I taught them to enjoy the storms as well. When the first big lightning storms would come early in the spring, I would hold the little one close on my lap. We would sit on the porch of the sauna so we could feel the power in the storm, and the wind on our faces. As we watched the storm together, she could feel my joy, the excitement of and thrill of the light, the noise and the rain.

   The really good storms are over quickly. The sky clears, the day dawns anew. I’m reminded of the many reasons I live here. The quiet peacefulness, the lush forest, bountiful wildlife, and that moist, clean smell of the air after the rain.

Received June 2, 2010

Blackflies Love Bananas

   Blackflies love bananas. Blackflies especially like to sip the blood of people who eat bananas.

   Why should blackflies love bananas? Clearly, this fruit is foreign to the northern Ontario landscape. Well, ask yourself, why do you like bananas? Despite the fact that you have never in your life seen a wild banana growing in the forest, you still like to eat them. They are sweet and creamy, and have a wonderful aroma. Blackflies are attracted to wonderful, sweet aromas. If that is what’s emanating from your pores, that is what will bring the blackflies close to you, and not to me.

   It’s true! Blackflies are most definitely attracted to people with sweet blood. They, like most of us, love sweets. And their tiny aroma receptors are keyed in to detecting sweetness. This is also why they are attracted to blueberry flowers. We must remember to thank the little critters for helping with pollinating when we pick the berries come July.

   The thing that blackflies don’t like is garlic. I know this to be true, not just from the reading I’ve done over the past three decades, but from personal experience as well. I eat a lot of garlic. Fresh, raw garlic is crushed into the salad each night. As soon as the garlic that was planted in the garden last fall appears after snowmelt, I pick the greens and put them into the salad too. Then, just about the time the blackflies are emerging from hibernation, so do the wild leeks mature in the forest. I eat as many wild leeks as I can in the month of May.

   I am amazed when going on field trips in late May. The blackflies near their peak, and most of the sucking flies are swarming around the sweetest folks in the crowd. They are not swarming around me.

   Blackflies feed by macerating the superficial tissues of the skin with a frightening set of cutting and snipping mouth parts that operate like scissors. The blades are equipped with backward pointing teeth to keep the bugs from falling off our skin during feeding. The scissor-like action of the mouthparts causes a local haemorrhage, and the fly sucks up the blood. Hmm.

   That’s why such a small creature can make such a big hole. The blackfly saliva has an anticoagulant in it, so it takes a while for our bodies to stop the flow of blood once we’ve been bitten.

   With the early spring we’ve had this year, lots of people are asking when the blackflies will emerge? In my experience, blackflies arrive at 1:00 on Mother’s Day. And I think that will hold true this year, even though I did see a few of them wandering around the garden in the last few days of April……

Received April 30, 2010

Ice 2010               

   Nobody had been on the ice for a week, maybe two. Except for us. We were on the ice every day…until Tuesday.

    Tuesday morning the ice was fine! The overnight temperature dipped to –6, and the ice was hard as a rock. OK, hard as a soft rock. I could whack it with my pole and make a small dent. Sometimes when I whacked, I’d get a splintering of hairline cracks. I could look at these, and clearly see the ice was well over 4 inches thick. And this was good, because 4 inches of ice in spring is not enough. Mostly there were 7 to 12 inches of ice. And after that cold night, it was all very hard.

   I walked out a couple hundred yards to the first pressure crack. The ice had buckled one way and another, lifting here and dipping there. The ice thinned at the edges where it rose and fell, but I found a wide section where it had not buckled…tested it with my pole, and easily stepped across.

   In the distance I could see a much bigger crack…one that extended across the entire width of the lake. I walked over there, and followed this crack to the far shore.

   The myriad of patterns on the ice surface changed continually. Most of the ice was very clear. I could see the thousands of air bubbles trapped inside. I could see hairline cracks that went all the way through the ice. And this was reassuring, because I could see that the bubbles and the hairline cracks went down a foot or more. Clearly, there was a lot of ice. The beauty of it all was breathtaking.

   BOOM!!! My heart skipped a beat. Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I spread my weight and lowered my pole…all in a fraction of a second. Then I took a deep breath and continued my walk. The big grumbles and booming cracking noises always happen when the ice is expanding, as it did that morning as the sun tried to warm the cool air. There was no danger at all…there was no place for the ice to go as it stretched in the morning sun.

   Still, it was the stretching and shrinking of the ice that created these pressure cracks. Over the past week, temperatures fluctuated from +15 to –15. That makes the ice move. But since it has nowhere to go, it pushes up at the pressure cracks. The ice that gets pushed down tends to melt faster than the ice that gets pushed up. That’s how I was able to walk right to the edge of the biggest crack on the lake to take this picture. I stood on nearly a foot of ice, looking down at the skim of new ice that had formed on the open water overnight.

   I thoroughly enjoyed walking on the ice for more than an hour. I reluctantly stepped ashore, with thoughts of going back for another walk in the afternoon. But alas, it was not to be. By afternoon the ice near shore had gone soft all the way through. It was six inches thick, but had no strength at all. I easily poked a hole through with a single whack of my pole. My ice walking days were over.

Received April 3, 2010

Snow Angels

   I first read about making snow angels in a little book on cross-country skiing nearly 30 years ago. Not just any old kind of snow angels…this book described jumping naked into the snow after a sauna. I’m not sure what taking a sauna in the middle of winter had to do with skiing, but this little book assured that having a roll in the snow after a sauna was one of the most breath taking things in the world.

   I’m frequently asked if I had ever done this. My reply is that I think it sounds like a great idea…but it took me years to give it a try. It required perfect conditions: the snow must be light and fluffy, and deep. The sauna must be very hot, and there must be no wind. One doesn’t want to freeze in the wind chill before hitting the snow.

   Now, you would think that these conditions would be easy to come by over the course of a winter. And you would be right. But thinking something is always easier than doing it. I must admit I’ve only done it a few times in all these years. Here’s what it was like the first time:

   Towel in hand, I walked down to the sauna along the narrow path with snow banks rising nearly two feet on either side. The outside temperature was nearing 20 below, but inside the sauna was warm. I climbed up to the top bench, tossed some water onto the rocks, and settled back to relax in the steam. I read a few chapters from an old book while the heat seeped into my bones (and melted the binding of the book…).

   In the back of my mind I was contemplating the idea of snow angels. After half an hour in the heat, I decided the time had come. A few more splashes of water on the rocks to get a final burst of heat, then I was out the door. As I tiptoed down the steps, the whole idea seemed pretty silly to me. Why would anyone in their right mind walk outside, stark naked, and dripping wet, to fall in the snow?

   Well, there was no backing out now. I dropped frontward into the snow. Less than two seconds later I was back in the sauna, gasping for breath.

   After a few long and loud ‘aahhhs’ and ‘ooohhhs’, I had to wonder what was so wonderful about this experience. Perhaps my mistake was to fall forward into the snow. Of course! Snow angels are made on your back!

   I turned up the fire, tossed some more water on the rocks, and warmed up while contemplating giving it one more try.

   My second trip down the steps was a little quicker than the first. I didn’t want to cool down at all before hitting the snow. I fell backwards, took an involuntary gasp, remembered to wave my arms for the angel’s wings, then flew back into the warmth of the sauna.

   Nope, it wasn’t any better on the back side. Snow dripped from my body as it melted by the fire. I wondered why the soft lovely flakes felt like knives on my skin. I wondered why I wasn’t bleeding all over.

   On the other hand, the second dip in the snow lasted twice as long as the first. Maybe I could get used to it if I did it every day. Or maybe not.

Received February 19, 2010

Reflections

   The moment I stepped onto the dock one hot June day nearly forty years ago, I knew I had come home. The lake, the forest, the little log cabin, the blueberries, the quiet... this is where I wanted to live.

   It took a while to make that dream come true. I was fresh from the city, didn’t know much at all about keeping warm in winter. But I did know that I wasn’t likely to be able to make a life here by myself. For the first few years, I commuted - spending the glorious summer days here at the lake, only to return to the city in September.

   I finally found Allan in the early 80s. He was living across the lake, and it soon became apparent that we both wanted to live here in the bush. We married in September of 1983 and spent the winter in my little log cabin as our honeymoon.

   We took long walks in the autumn woods, we gathered wild mushrooms and cranberries. We brought in lots of firewood, and winterized the cabin. We spent the short winter days exploring the forest on skis and snowshoes, and the long winter nights playing cards and Scrabble.

   With the arrival of spring, we tapped a dozen maple trees and spent hours over the open fire boiling down the sap. We were rewarded with a dozen jars of dark syrup with a wonderful smoky flavour.

   Living far from the city, our expenses were few, but we did have expenses. We knew we wanted to keep living here, and we knew we would have to find a source of income. I thought maybe I could become a writer.

   I found an old cast iron typewriter at the surplus store. It took a few months to get a new ribbon for it. Then it took a while longer to figure out what I was going to write about.

   In the spring if 1984, the local paper was on strike. I saw this as an opportunity to break in to the world of life as writer. After all, the smaller community newspaper would be taking on a lot more advertising - surely, they would need some stories to accompany the ads?

   I wrote up a piece on how to make maple syrup and took it in to the editor. She made a tentative offer for a weekly piece, and I was on my way! That first summer I wrote about wild foods and mosquitoes, dragonflies and blueberry wine. In autumn it was cranberries and mushrooms, and winter brought on stories about the lake freezing and the joys of skiing.

   Twenty six years now I have been writing, and I’m still telling stories about the delicious weeds from my garden, autumn mushrooms, joys of skiing, the magic of watching the lake freeze over, melting away again in spring.

   Not much has changed here over these decades. That’s a big part of the joy that comes with living in the forest, far from civilization.

Received February 3, 2010

In the Night

   It rarely gets really dark in winter. The blanket of whiteness that covers the ground reflects every bit of light that comes from the sky. Even on a moonless, overcast night, enough starlight leaks through the clouds to help me find my way.

   I enjoy walking around without artificial light at night. I can see great distances, especially in open areas and across the expanse of the lake. As soon as I turn on the flashlight, my view is limited to a small circle. The flash of artificial light turns the natural world to blackness. The horizon disappears. Better to use no light at all.

   When the moon is new, we don't see it at all. Only the stars light the night. Far from the city, the stars shine with brilliance enough to wander easily about in the night. Only when the cloud cover thickens does the walking get to be challenging.

   Just a day or two after the new moon, a tiny sliver of moon lights the early evening sky. As the days progress, the crescent becomes thicker, and brighter, and higher in the sky for longer periods of time.

   During the first quarter, fully half the moon will be lit and it will stay high in the sky for hours after sunset. A week into the first quarter, the moon will be bright enough to ski under, if the clouds are not too thick.

   The moon will brighten even more every night until it is full. By then, the moon will rise in the east as the sun sets in the west. For a few days, there won't really be any darkness at all in the night, even if there is a thick layer of clouds. All night long the full moon will shine like a spotlight in the sky.

   This is a great time to go skiing. Every night between the first quarter and a few days after the full moon we will be able to wander about freely and easily under the brilliant light of the mid-winter moon.

   As the moon wanes it will still be large, but it won't rise until an hour or so after sunset. The night will still be bright once the moon rises, you will just have to wait a bit for it to get high enough in the sky to light the landscape.

   As the nights carry on through the month, the moon will rise later each night, and get smaller and smaller. As it dwindles, it straggles into the next day, clearly visible in the morning sky.

   Even after the sun rises, the third quarter moon rides quietly across the sky, barely discernible in the pale blue background. Each morning it will seem a little smaller, until just a few days before the moon is new again, a tiny crescent will disappear in the east as the rising sun outshines it.

   So the cycle begins again. Through it all, I continue to wander from the cabin to the sauna and back again. Sometimes I'll just step out for a short walk to enjoy the beauty of the night. Then, if conditions are just right, I may even strap on the old skis and get out for an hour on the trails.

Viki Mather has been writing for Northern Life since the spring of 1984.
During 2010, she takes us back to some of those older writings as she prepares to publish a book of ‘In the Bush’.
Look for Viki’s articles on the second and fourth Thursday of each month.
This article was originally written in late January 2001.

Winter Travels

  Living in the bush in the winter is definitely more of a challenge than in summer. No, it is not the moonlit trips to the outhouse that make winter life so difficult. It isn't even the work of keeping the home-fire burning or hauling water up from the lake.

    The difficulty of living in the bush in winter centres for the most part on getting out of the bush to do errands in town. Harder yet is getting back home again.

    A typical trip to town in January begins just as the sky is getting light. We dress in our warmest woollies, toques and double mitts, neck warmers and helmets. The first part of the trip is by snowmachine.

    "Over the river and through the woods” often runs in my mind as we traverse the frozen landscape. I'm glad we don't have any rivers to cross, but rather an assortment of forests and swamps. If the conditions are right, we might cross a lake to bypass a few kilometres of bumpy trail. It takes nearly half an hour to cover the seven kilometres between home and the nearest ploughed road.

    Once there, we quickly transfer everything from trailer to truck. With no garage, no plug-in, no remote starter, we just pray that the truck will start after sitting for a week in the cold.  Yes, it is a bit chilly in the truck as we slowly start out along the snowy road. It only takes a few minutes for the truck's heater to warm the air. By the time we get to he corner store and pick up the weekly mail, we are ready to take off the woollies. Generally we will pull out onto the highway about an hour after leaving home.

    Another half hour of scooting down the highway and we find our way into Sudbury. The day begins. Vesta to school, Kate to daycare, me to the laundromat. Once the clothes are in to wash I get a chance to look at the mail. Sometimes it can be pretty nice to get a week's worth of mail all at one time.

    I move through the town, stopping at the bank, this store and that, the library, and perhaps the I Free Cafe for lunch. But only if the day is going well and I have time to relax over a good meal. Otherwise it's bagels and cream cheese as I drive from the hardware store to the tool repair shop.

    The day disappears all too fast and it's time to pick up the girls and head home again. More often than not, we need to stop somewhere for a bit of dinner, then back to the corner store, fill up with gas, pick up the new mail and head homeward again.

    Getting home is a lot more complicated than getting out. The hour it took us to get as far as the highway in the morning takes at least an hour and a half on the way home. Already it is long past sunset. The warm hearth of home seems so very far away.

    Half an hour back up the snow packed road, half an hour in the parking lot to get organized and half an hour on the snowmachine once more.  It only took two minutes to transfer laundry, schoolbags and all that other stuff from trailer to truck in the morning. Coming home is so much more complex. We have to get dressed within the cramped but warm truck: woollies, coats, mitts, etc.  I have to get all the purchases of the day organized into traveling boxes. I have to tuck in the perishable groceries, usually under the laundry, to keep all from freezing on the way home.

    Then with all of us lined up on the snowmachine, we head homeward once again over the bumpy trail.... twelve hours after the trip out that morning.

Viki Mather has been writing for Northern Life since the spring of 1984.
During 2010, she takes us back to some of those older writings as she prepares to publish a book of ‘In the Bush’.
Look for Viki’s articles on the second and fourth Thursday of each month.
This one was originally published in early January 2001.

The Excitement of the Ice.......(you can scroll down to the last entry: December 19)

      December 11, 2009

   Kate and I were off to the big city of Sudbury for a day of Christmas shopping – the second to last shopping day for us! We picked this day because the weather was good for crossing the open water on the lake, and for driving the winter roads in the city.

   We had to break through a hundred metres of thin ice in front of the sauna to get out to the open water, then pulled our toques on tightly to try to keep out the west wind. It was cold!

   There was only a skim of ice near the dock when we go to the other side. We easily pulled ashore, hiked up the snowy hill to where the truck was parked, dug it out and headed down the road.

   As I drove, I was thinking of the bitter cold of the wind on the lake and the prediction that the wind would be a little stronger in the afternoon. If we hoped to get home again before dark, we’d have to leave the city not later than 3:30 that afternoon. Getting all the errands completed would be a rush. Or rather, getting all the errands done would be impossible. I’d have to leave some for next time.

   Another option was to relax, take my time, and stay overnight away from home. Clearly, this was a far more appealing perspective. The downside would be that Ice would form on the lake overnight. How much ice? Ya never know.

   Still, I figured that if the wind kept up, the ice shouldn’t be able to form. Except that the wind direction was set to shift in the night, which would allow ice to cover more of our sheltered bay.

   The choice was boating in the wind at dusk, or waiting till the next day and possibly having to break new ice the next morning. I phoned Allan’s sister and we arranged to stay with her overnight. Got lots of shopping done, had a good night’s sleep, then pulled all the boxes down the snowy hill to fill the boat in the morning.



      December 12, 2009

   There was no new ice at our starting point, except what froze to the boat as the south wind lapped upon its side. At -15 C this sunny morning, the motor started up on the fifth pull and only stalled twice.

   Kate and I tucked into our warm winter clothes and pfds and headed east, then south and into the wind.

   We crinkled through a few skims of ice when we neared a sheltered shoreline. A fine mist hovered over the water, blowing like newborn clouds in the morning wind. I steered a course along the eastern shore, tucking into the shelter of islands when I could. I strained to see the big dead pine on the western island where the eagles usually perch to catch the heat of the morning sun. I think they may be gone for the winter.

   The bay to the north of ours was filled with mist, but didn’t seem to have any ice. When I rounded the corner to our bay – there was ice everywhere! This surprised me because most winters it takes several days for the whole bay to fill with ice.

   I slowed the boat and we began the kilometre long crunch. Mist still rose in a few spots, indicating that there was still some open water. We wove our way through the ice, toward the open spots, then through more ice.

   The older ice had beautiful frost feathers where the mist had precipitated. The more white we saw, the thicker the ice. At the midpoint on the bay, the ice got significantly thicker. The boat slowly crunched through three centimetres of ice. Beautiful, clear chunks of ice broke beneath the bow. I felt badly, breaking up all this wonderful ice.

   The hundred meters of ice we had broken though just 26 hours earlier was covered with frost feathers. Allan walked toward us on the ice, carrying a long pole and dragging a sled to bring home our boxes of stuff.

   The boat couldn’t easily break through this thicker ice, so it rose slowly up onto it, and the motor stalled. Perfect! Kate hopped out the bow, and skittered away from the boat. A thin sheet of water seeped up on the ice under the weight of the boat.

   The clear, hard ice Allan walked on made no noise as he travelled – a good sign that it was more than thick enough. He passed the sled to me, I filled it will all the heavy stuff from the boat and he dragged it back to shore.

   He came back with the sled to take the motor off the boat. We pulled the boat up onto the ice, then over to the shore to tuck it away till spring.

   After lunch, Kate put on her skates and had a wonderful afternoon of skating on this huge sheet of clear, smooth hard ice.

Allan pulling the boat, with the path we broke through the ice in the background.

This photo shows a close-up of the white crystals that I call 'feather ice'.

I’m standing on about 7cm of clear, hard ice.

Note the frost feathers, and the rocks just under the ice/water.

	When the ice just begins to form, long ‘Jack Frost’ ice crystals grow across the surface. This photo shows where the new ice began to grow at the edge of the old. Sublimination will erase these early marks on the ice.

      December 13

   No new ice today, but very cold temperatures later this week should make for more exciting photos.

Received December 13, 2009

      December 14, 2009

   Yesterday was mild, so the snow started to slide off the roof. Great curls of 20 cm thick snow froze in place as the temperatures dipped below freezing at dusk. Last night was cold and calm. When I woke this morning, the first thought was…is there new ice?

   I climbed the ladder that leans up against the front of the lodge so I could see further out the bay. Alas, there was no new ice. However, it had been cold enough overnight to strengthen the older ice. Hmm. Could I pull a canoe across the ice and go paddling?

   Late every autumn we have to move our truck from the lakeside summer parking, to the trailside winter parking. Today seemed like a good day to make the move.

   A mild northeast wind was predicted, so I decided to take a kayak instead of a canoe. I put my skis, boots and poles in it, along with the paddle and pfd. I would need the skis to get home from the winter parking lot.

   I pulled the kayak along behind me as I walked nearly a kilometre across the ice. It slid easily on the rough surface. Just before the beaver house, the ice made a little noise, so I gingerly held onto the kayak, skittering by.

   Little patches of thin ice surrounded rocks that rose above the lake surface. This always happens where even a little bit of wave action from the open water works its way under the ice, and melts out the edges. I checked the thickness of the ice I was walking on – a good 6 cm. Lots of ice! For a while.

   About a hundred metres from the open water the ice underfoot started getting noisy again. I tried using the kayak as a scooter, with one foot inside, but it didn’t work. So I pushed the kayak ahead, then walked along on the rocks at the shoreline. It was a nuisance trying to get around the alders that reach out over the water, so this took quite a long time. I had a lot of time, so I stayed on the shore.

   Some of you who read the first part of this story a few days ago seemed to be worried about our encounters with the ice. I just want you to know, that indeed, I am being more careful that I used to be. A few years ago I would frequently walk on as little as 2.5 cm of ice. It is possible to walk on 2.5 cm of ice – if it is new, cold, clear ice. A few years ago I would have walked on this ice, pulling the kayak behind me on a long rope. Now that I’m older (and wiser?), I didn’t.

   Eventually the kayak and I met at the ice-free shore. I took some photos, put on the pfd, and started on my journey across the lake. It was a very beautiful crossing. Deep black waters, silvery sky, white, white snow in the deep forest around me.

   Ice flows held on to the lee sides of islands. Ice the same thickness of that I had pushed the kayak across. It began to snow. The hillsides faded in and out, more shades of grey. Most of the flakes that fell on the kayak melted, then froze. A thin sheet of ice covered the boat. More ice coated the shaft of the paddle above the blades, and I dipped, dipped, and paddled across 6 kilometres of open water.

   As I came around the last island, I saw the ice stretch from island to shore. Almost. A thin band of water remained along the western side. I paddled along, and once again stepped out where the water met rock.

   I tucked the kayak away for the season (I hope!). Then phoned Allan to let him know I was safely on land again. I carried the skis up the snowy hill to the truck, and drove down the road.

   The skiing was wonderful! Allan had packed the trail a few days before. It won’t be trackset for a while…we’ll need another foot of snow to do that. Still, the first ski of the year felt great. To be sliding again, gliding along, flying down the hills, and climbing up again gives great hope for the season to come.



      December 15, 2009

   The northwest wind blew through the night and the day – breaking away 200 m of the ice I dragged the kayak across yesterday! When the wind dies down, the ice will grow again.

	Leaving the ice behind
Looking ahead just before getting into the kayak.
	A beautiful view on the lake
The far shore, the end of the journey

      ...More to come!

Received December 15, 2009

December 19, 2009

    The northwest wind began to blow on Tuesday morning. It blew through the day, and into the night. The waves broke away a hundred meters of ice. The wind blew through the day on Wednesday, a little stronger than the day before. The ice retreated another 200 metres. Overnight the wind died.

    Great chunks of ice that were broken at the edge drifted toward the middle of the lake. Fine needles of ice began to grow from the edges of the old ice. Through the darkness of the night, long thin needles of ice grew in the middle of the bay, and across the great expanse of the lake. They ran into each other, and grew thicker. By Thursday morning, nearly all the lake had a few millimetres of ice. Only a few pools of water remained.

    A light breeze came from the east. It caught the water in some of the pools, and managed to get enough power to splinter the thin ice. Thin sheets piled up by the shoreline. Then the wind died again, and the ice enclosed the lake.

    On Thursday morning, mist rose thickly from the last of the open water, then drifted across the thin ice. Intricate feathery hoarfrost precipitated on the black surface of the ice.
Allan and Kate took a walk in the afternoon to have a look. They were able to walk comfortably out the bay. They climbed a bit of a hill at the end of the bay to get a better perspective. There was no water to be seen anywhere. The official freeze-up day for 2009 was December 17th.

Friday afternoon Allan and Kate went out for a skate. They skated on the smooth ice beyond the broken ice flows of Wednesday afternoon. They skated beyond the end of our long bay, all the way over to the islands near the western shore. They skated back across the middle of the lake to the wide bay to the north of us, and back home again.
I was away from home Wednesday morning until Friday evening, so Saturday morning was my first chance to have a look at the new ice. I walked while Kate skated. I carried an axe and a long pole, so I could poke the ice to measure it. I found nearly 10 cm where I had paddled the kayak Monday afternoon.

    There were a few places near the western islands that had no hoarfrost feathers on the ice. These circular ‘pools’ were just freezing over when that mist was seen on Thursday morning. The ice here was super smooth, and very black. Kate and I could see some air bubbles under the ice near the spot where Allan had poked a hole the day before. The bubbles were about 6 cm deep. Saturday morning I found about 7 cm there.

    So, this is the end of the new-ice chronicle. We are not expecting any significant snow for several days, which is very good. It will give lots of time for the ice to get thick.

    Kate and I spent a long time out on the ice today mostly because it is so very beautiful. The frost feathers, the thin sheets of early ice piled up on shore just before the last of the lake froze, the icicles from 2 days of north wind splashing on the shore, rock encased in 10 cm of clear ice, the hairline cracks drawing lines across the vast expanse – these are not fully captured in the pictures. If you get a chance, get out to have a look for yourself!

Received December 19, 2009