The View this week-before it changed again -

Then there was the silence. Not the enforced kind. Just the quiet that creeps in and before you can whisper, sound is conspicuous by its absence.

As winter tightens its grip, it also loosens at the same time. We get used to hunching shoulders as we go out the door, expecting cold blasts to envelope our senses. Then a moment comes when the air is not so cold, the wind not so harsh -  for a while anyway.

Changes like this come to Lake Superior with an extra surprise. You think the freeze up will be complete, that ice will cover most of the outside world, and then all that becomes undone. These developments are most obvious during the times of ice formation.

At first there isn’t any chance at all of ice covering the lake. Snow and storms don’t settle down enough; these are the days when highway travel is most treacherous and all one is able to do is keep clearing snow. But the lake can’t fight the cold forever. Eventually enough heat leaves, the shore starts to accept ice on the rocks and the frigid dense water finally accepts the weight of the cold.

The first sign that this might be happening is the strange quiet; it’s such a contrast to the din of battering waves.  Then a hair thin skin grows over the water. The smooth surface appears as a lighter colour and, if the wind and the temps stay down, pretty soon this layer stretches as far as one can see. And it remains quiet.

A few days ago on a clear day I looked to the north across Agawa Bay, past Montreal Island to Baldhead , about 25 km. as the raven flies.  The view was amazing! The entire lake was kms and kms of skinny ice. As far as I could see there was no water, just a smooth, light, blue - grey sheet. What fun to imagine a skate but of course that was only a wild thought. This surface calm of ice was not destined to last. However, it was great snowshoeing along the beach and tossing ice pebbles across the hard water.

Then the lake orchestra filed in and took a seat. The ice music is incredible. Crystals tune up their instruments and the symphony begins. A high singing joins the echoing rolls in the distance. It is soooo hard to describe. If you have never heard the sound perhaps this might tickle your imagination.

Pretend you are in a huge gymnasium with ice for a floor. You are all alone, so the only sound is your own heartbeat. Then, off at the far end, a bowling ball begins to roll along the floor, a floor that is 5 cm think and lays over top a huge water chamber.  Echoes reverberate from one end to the other as the large ball moves. Close to you there are the occasional squeals as parts of the floor break and rub up against each other. Or sometimes the whole floor heaves, as if it is breathing. That sound resembles leather creaking and it too echoes as far as you can see. Myriad patterns of cracks and fissures are left behind.

This howl, creak and groan lasts as long as the ice remains as a solid sheet. However very little stays the same for very long. The wind arises, the ice shifts and the whole scene breaks up. Plates of broken ice slide onto the shore in a wild mass of a vibrant turquoise blue. The music turns to a tinkle then a growl. The wind stays up and soon there is no ice sheet, no delicate plates, just a rolling mash. There is no skinny skin, just heaving masses of white that on cloudy days resemble the morning’s oatmeal or sequined lace on the sunny ones. The sound is huge. Gigantic growls fill the air as ice chunks splatter and fly carving a new shoreline out of older ice cliffs. This new surface tightens and the silence returns once more.

One advantage to experiencing such impermanence in lake conditions is that you learn to prepare for all the impermanences in life. Some make you smile. Right now we benefit from low gas prices and interest rates. Some make you cheer. The Hounds are hot and so are the Raptors. While others reaffirm what you know to be true. Ice formations are fantastic and maple syrup, flowers and spring most definitely will be back.

That’s the tune that keeps us going, even if the silence tricks us into believing otherwise. 

Sliding Lessons

Shovelling is almost a sport these days. Each morning, fresh powder waits to dust up the blades of our wooden handled implements. Aaaaah...winter.

The beautiful white has been falling pretty well every day. And that’s what outdoor enthusiasts look forward to, once the driving to destination is over. Skiing, sledding, skating, snowshoeing -all the “s” words of winter - keep us primed for the season.

Part of the reason we have so much snow is because we have so much water around. Moisture fills the air and turns into a soft cousin as it leaves the rivers and lakes. The little ones are frozen over now, but the big ones, like Lake Superior, still are giving up the steam which morphs into floating white.

It has been most interesting to watch the transformations. Especially when big brother wind comes blasting through. Early the other morning, late moonlight was shining up huge smooth waves as they pushed onto shore. The rolling long lines curled with white cresting foam across a silky surface. As I looked more closely and as the light began to grow, I noticed a heavy dark line on the horizon that usually means one thing - a wind is on its way. Sure enough. Within half an hour the air was a thunderous roar as massive water mountains slammed into the bedrock. Spray hit the windows and horizontal snow replaced horizon lines.

I suppose if these waves were in Hawaii or even some other parts of Superior, we would see surfers sliding down the water hills. (Although the cold water surfers might end up singing Elvis’ Beach Boy Blues.) I’d only hit the real slopes, the sliding hills of winter.

This year, for whatever reason, there has been a media flurry about sliding hills. City decision makers in Sudbury fenced off access to their perennially popular urban hill. Would be gliders are raising sleds in opposition and Sudbury officials are rethinking that move. Their favourite free playground now is off limits. At the same time the city of Toronto opened two sliding hills this past weekend. There, children can take sliding lessons! One young girl announced with pride in a radio interview that she had learned how to stop.

Sliding is part of growing up that can give some of the greatest life lessons. I remember well all that it taught me. First off, you had to know the hill before hitting the slopes. There were no black diamond trail markers for safety, so watching for bumps, holes or rocks on the way up the hill was essential. There also had to be a long runway at the bottom with no cars or creeks in the way. It often was a contest to see who could go the farthest. The winner could cheer but they also had a longer walk to get back up the hill.

If you had your own toboggan, you pulled it up yourself. If you were sharing someone else’s, you took turns hauling it up. A padded seat was a luxury. Big thick cardboard boxes were a fun alternative. Crazy carpets were light but you felt every bump.

Then there are the right clothes to wear. Two pairs of mitts were ideal as the outside pair was bound to get balled up with snow. The inside layer made sure fingers didn’t freeze if you had to drag your hands to slow down. A scarf was important to keep the wind from your face on the way down, but keep it inside your coat. Don’t let it fly free. You could choke if it got caught in the sled. Long jackets or snow suits were keys to keeping snow from creeping down your back. Fashionable jeans were a disaster. They flash froze first run.

As for learning how to stop, now that is a bit trickier. And it depends on who is steering the toboggan. At the top of the hill, with a gang on the sled, most yell at each other to keep boots tucked in so the unit will go faster down the hill. As speed increases someone invariably starts dragging their feet to slow things down. Then the others will either poke their boots out too or yell at the cautious (or smart) one to quit slowing things up. The person at the front, by using twists, turns or flipping over, is in the most advantageous position to set the pace. However the front runner often ends up with snow in the face.

But one of the best things about sliding is the laughter in the fresh air. Plus, running up the hills and balancing yourself on the way down is a terrific workout. What a great way to get to know about the ups and downs of life. As a matter of fact, I think I will go get my shovel and dig out my sled right now.

Lights Within

Dec 28 2014...No Lake Ice ...yet

Maybe it’s the dark. Or it could be the cold. This time of year has a way of making us seek comfort. And of course, like people, comfort comes in all kinds of shapes.

A strong cup of tea or a slice of dark chocolate helps. As does a snowshoe through quiet woods or listening to a favourite version of a favourite song. Christmas music does drift out from the speakers at a perfect time. For we are in full swing towards the darkening days and are forced to acknowledge the shifts that nature gives us.

Now that the cold is here and the snow covers the ground, light takes on a different role. This month’s full moon, along with snow sparkle, has added a bit of magic to the nights. I like the first part of the evening, when there is a bite to the air, the skies are clear and the moon has not yet risen. The stars are twinkling dots, peeking out from the black velvet sky. Later in the night, when the moon casts tree shadows over snow laden bedrock, the outline of each twig and branch creates the illusion that another tree might exist somewhere else.

winter solstice sunset 2014

Not only is the moon playing tricks. The low afternoon sun on the lake conjures a golden road on the water. Sunglasses are mandatory for on a trip to the beach on a sunny day, even if the hard plastic wants to freeze your face. The beach takes a much different shape this time of year too. The fall gargantuan waves, heightened by high lake levels, pack more power than their summer cousins. Sand and pebbles become playthings. Rolling and crashing waves are the hands of a sculptor. All the while, the lake sloshes around back and forth, from shore to shore, until its story calms down.

Like the lake, like the natural world, people have stories too. And perhaps that is what makes this season so famous. At my book launch, I heard many folks speak of their family history and their favourite stories. I spoke with Ollie Kalliojarvi and after he told me of how the bucksaw could be carried in a pack, he suggested I speak about log cabin building with his nephew Ron Holmberg.

I contacted Ron Holmberg at his home in St Catherine’s Ontario. The first comment he made in the phone conversation was that he had just been looking at the snow out his window. He said that snow always makes him think of moving back up north. North, in this case, is the Sudbury /Sault area. Holmberg was born in the Sault and raised in Sudbury. He comes back for family reunions though. That’s where family history finds a fresh life.

In the early 1900s, at age 12, his orphaned dad, Robert (Bob) Holmberg travelled from Finland to Cleveland, Ohio to live with a brother. There, Bob spent a few years learning carpentry at a trade school. With skills intact and looking for work, Bob found his way to Sault Ste Marie. He soon met and married Aino Alexandra Siltanen and began a family. Then in the 1920s, Russ Devlin, who had just purchased “Beaver Rock”, a magnificent stretch of sandy shoreline 140 km north of Sault Ste Marie along Lake Superior, contracted Bob for a special job. Devlin needed Bob’s carpentry and log building skills for his new home site.

So Bob and Aino moved to Beaver Rock with three of their children. Aino was cook for the construction crew and Bob put his building skills to work.

Ron did not know about his dad’s construction work at Beaver Rock until about 10 years ago when he visited his uncle Milton the day after a summer family reunion. Milton drove Ron up to Beaver Rock to see the old cabins there. Bob could not believe what he saw and how he felt when he peeked in the window of an old log cabin. He saw a fireplace that sent him spinning into the past. With obvious emotion he explained his thoughts.

 “I was spooked out!” he said. “That fireplace was the spitting image of the one my dad built for us at our camp near Sudbury.”

Ron had to investigate further. He went inside the cabin. The spookiness continued.

He went on to say, “When I stood there, I had the funny feeling that maybe my father was standing there right beside me.”

Dream Steam

Some places and some stories do that to you. They raise memories that you might never expect. There is no doubt that story telling, in all its forms, is crucial to our nature. The narratives help us to grow.  And what better time of year than now to indulge?

So Happy Holidays everyone and may all your stories be happy ones too.  And if not, may they help you turn towards the comfort, warmth and light that is within us all.

ahhhh.... time for a rest