Ice walkers

Feel like heading south? Sick of the cold? Can’t stand the stinging wind one more day? Who knew that we would have to endure ANOTHER polar vortex!

Some folks refuse to be undone and devise a multitude of ways to brave the elements. Like frying fish in a tent at a campsite in Lake Superior Park when it’s -19 (check out lakesuperiorpark.com to see the hot tent video). Others rebel and stay inside to cook up steaming pots of soup. How to survive it all? Well, humour helps. I laughed when I heard last week about a jesting Facebook post from the Nova Scotia RCMP. The faithful horsemen said that Old Man Winter was on their wanted list for causing “numerous highway closures, excessive shovelling and visits to the chiropractor.” I imagine that one could add disrupting water mains and blinding snow storms to the charges. Plus, there must have been complaints about his homegrown recruits, Willie Windchill and Frieda Frostbite. The Mounties warned folks to not approach Old Man Winter because he was “armed with ice pellets” and to protect themselves with sand, a snow blower or salt!

ice tree

But you’d need an infinitesimal amount of salt to eradicate Old Man Winter’s effect on the lake. For, as of this week, ice smothers 90 to 100 percent of Lake Superior. We can see ice on the lake straight to the horizon and beyond. That vast expanse of white is such a compelling surface.

 About a week ago we decided that it was safe enough to hike said ice sheet. Housed in snowpants and woolen layers of insulation under my biggest warmest coat, I ventured down to the icy lake with scarf over my mouth and two pairs of socks in my boots. I walked like the Michelin man. (To get to the lake we have to navigate over drifts and around ice cliffs.) Frieda and Willie terrorized my bare fingers as I released my hands from cosy mitts just long enough to buckle the straps on my snowshoes. 

michelin woman

When we reached the shore of lake Superior, we stood there for a minute, listening to the thundering voice of the ice. The scene was magnificent. The walk was amazing. The sight was pure artistry. Snow resembled mounds of whipped cream. Where the ice was clear, lines and cracks converged to create a beautiful geometry. 

What is all this frozen stuff anyway?  Painters and musicians and poets often offer their insights. Scientists have their interpretations too. They say that pure ice is white with a blue tinge. Well the turquoise hidden in the ice caves affirmed that point. Science also says that ice is a mineral, or at least it has the 5 properties of a mineral. The first two properties are easy to understand. Ice must occur on its own, not be manmade. And no other organism must be able to produce it either. The rink makers, who embrace the frigid nights with hose in hand, know too well that their creations only result from just the right combo of water and temperature. Next, to be a mineral, ice must be a solid. Uhhh..I sure hope so. A lot of ice trekkers and snow machinists are counting on that one. The last two properties deal with chemistry - a finite number of chemical compositions and an ordered atomic structure. Hexagonal crystals put ice straight into the mineral category. Science sure has a hoot analysing this ever mysterious, ever changing substance. Check this out. Under the Antarctic ice field lays the Russian-named Lake Vostok. Researchers claim that the lake has a surface area of about 14,000 sq km and is 670 m deep. (Lake Superior is approx 82,100 sq km and 406 m deep). The Antarctic scientists add other interesting tidbits. They say that 3 km of ice has hidden Lake Vostok from the sun for about 15 million years. Other discoveries include DNA from single celled organisms encased in the ice. Scientists call them extremophiles. Yeesh. I think that some of us feel like we are turning into one of those.

snow cornice

But take heart. Right now Old Man Winter is using the last of his energy to make his getaway. (The Mounties will have to nab their man next year.) The fearless frost maker is heading to the shores of Lake Vostok on a March Break ice diving holiday. After that, he reports back to work in Brazil, Australia and other places south of 0 (aka t

Locked in to the island

But take heart. Right now Old Man Winter is using the last of his energy to make his getaway. (The Mounties will have to nab their man next year.) The fearless frost maker is heading to the shores of Lake Vostok on a March Break ice diving holiday. After that, he reports back to work in Brazil, Australia and other places south of 0 (aka the equator). By then, spring will be making her presence felt here. You will find her sleeping in a sunny window, standing by a south facing wall or luxuriating from a warm windless day on the ice. Ahh. Such is our life. For, indeed, as the slogan goes, “We the North.”

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

Welcome winter

Whiskey Jack

After the storm

Pine Martin

 



A rare sunny November day

Yell "Oh!"

You’d almost think they had a voice. They have so much vibrant colour that they seem to be singing. The wet trees must be bursting with secrets that they are dying to tell.

Almost as scripted, Thanksgiving weekend was almost perfect. With deep blue skies laced with streaming yellow, who could resist a hike through crinkling carpets of leaves? Between tearing up bread bits for turkey stuffing I kept running outside to breathe in all that beauty. I finally acquiesced to the cook’s duties but still took joy in the weed and bright yellow daisy bouquet outside my kitchen window. 

The brilliant yellow birch and poplar trees are especially stunning this year. I don’t remember them being quite so amazing. Perhaps it is all the rain we’ve had or maybe it is just me appreciating that hue more than usual. Here by Lake Superior the yellows stand out like cheerleaders along the shore.

Two types of birch trees are the Paper (or White) birch and the Yellow. G.G. Erdmann, on a USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) website, shared some neat data about the Yellow birch. He says that the yellow is the most valuable of all native birches. It has yellowish-bronze bark and the inner bark is aromatic with a flavor of wintergreen. The slow-growing, long-lived tree grows alongside other hardwoods and conifers on the moist, well-drained soils of hills and mountain ravines. The Yellow is an important source of hardwood lumber and a good browse plant for deer and moose. Other wildlife feed on the buds and the very, very light seeds. Erdmann says it takes 99,200 of them to make a kg!

The shorter-lived Paper birch has the distinctive white bark. The tree starts out as coppery-brown when it is young. As it ages, the bark begins to peel and then turns white. The Paper birch gives out an abundance of sap in the spring, which can be boiled into syrup. Some peoples used this sap as a medicine for colds. And the leaves, twigs and buds contain salicylates (the ingredient used to make aspirin), so they have been used to make teas to relieve pain and inflammation.

Birch trees have a very important role in life’s play and at one time their demise was a signal that perhaps not all was well. If Shakespeare had to use trees as characters, the yellow and white birch would have been in almost every act. For the story of the tree has some parallels to the human narrative. The birch regenerates best under shelter wood, but after 5 years, the tree seeks freedom from the protective overstory. Flourishing birches have an adaptable, well developed root system. They spread horizontally or go deep underground or follow the route of older root channels. And trees, too, suffer from PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). Damaged trees can take a long time to recover. Or remain beautiful with their sculpted injuries. I celebrate birch trees whenever I can. They are the last lights in the forest; their preparation for winter is a warm glow of hope.

Last week I discovered another kind of hope, not that given by old trees, but by old humans. I was waiting in line at a store in the Sault and was becoming impatient. The women ahead of me seemed to be dallying. (Heaven forbid that one holds up a busy line on the Friday of a holiday weekend!) However, the moment turned into a bit of magic that affirmed for me the importance of the aged. The delay was due to a younger woman paying for a stranger’s, an older woman’s, items. It was a pay-it-forward kindness. The elderly lady was in shock; the younger woman was just pleased to help; the cashier was smiling and warm. I was humbled and amazed at the simplicity and strength of the single caring act. And after going through the check out myself I stopped and spoke to the slower moving, elderly woman. She was 90, still living in her own apartment and oh so pleased with the moment. As was I. We hugged and almost cried. For a nanosecond I felt like I had my own mother back.

If people are connected to trees then this was a forest of emotion. We need trees of all ages. We need people of all ages. Our world is a better, healthier place when it is diverse. We might be all seen as green but the true colours shine under that cloak. So as our fall season becomes yellow with age I’ll remember how great this all is. And wait to hear what our white winter will have to say.

Once Upon a Time is the Best

Crescent moon

From the earliest days of bed time we’ve known about something. The once upon a time world was the magic that carried us off to dreamland. Even as very young children we’ve been aware of the importance of story.

Every day dozens of stories slide into our lives. Some of them come to us in many layers. Stan Roger’s epic ballad, Northwest Passage, is a dormant earworm that awakens in a nanosecond every time I hear those words. So when crews discovered one of Franklin`s ships lying under 10 metres of freezing Arctic waters, the song began playing in my mind and all over the airwaves for several days. Most of Canada now knows Franklin’s story but how many of us appreciate the role story telling had in the discovery of the ship? If the Inuit people had not valued their stories and passed them on to each generation, then the precious information they had about the Franklin expedition could not have been used today.

Modern times have modern ways of storytelling. Today, people walk down the street reading their phones to get the latest news. YouTube has become a popular medium to learn just about anything. And screens hold listeners’ attention for most of the day. Story telling has morphed indeed, but the old reliable methods will never fail to please. Nature can tell a magnificent tale without uttering a word. Last week the jumping antics of 2 am northern lights lit up the sky. The searchlight beams spoke of life in the dark void. On September 22, the vernal equinox sun again set in the exact same spot, proving that balance does exist amidst our earth’s confusion. And the smaller tracks I saw with no telltale tang told me that a cow, not a bull, moose had meandered down the road.

Driftwood on Agawa Beach at Agawa Bay

Of course people are the steady storytellers. We were at the Agawa Bay Visitor`s Centre in Lake Superior Provincial Park for the arrival of the busload of folks on the CAPT trains Group of Seven and Glenn Gould weekend. The congenial chatter amongst everyone was contagious. One group member remarked that he could not believe how much culture he experienced in just two days.  I treasured the stories of how A.Y. Jackson`s urge to paint had him climbing up steep hills and bushwhacking over rough trails, even though he was almost 80 years old!

The very young can be some of the most compelling story tellers. Their view of the world is keen and refreshing. I listened to a nine year old brimming over with enthusiasm about the possibility of walking himself to and from school and maybe stopping to get an ice cream on the way home. And a six year old repeated the story her teacher had read to her that day, word for word, sound bite by sound bite. Ahhhh. The wonderful memory of the young.

Ancient things also have a lot to share. Lake Superior has enough stories in its depths to fill Mishepechu’s library. Lighthouse keepers stranded for the winter out on Caribou Island. Shipwrecked folks from the Goldspie walking in the late fall from Old Woman Bay to Michipicoten Harbour and freezing their feet. Nine days of pure flat calm that bedazzled boaters.

Crescent Lake 

                                                                                                                                                       

Little lakes tell amazing tales too. This week we hiked into lake Superior Park’s Crescent Lake. The colours were splendid, the kind that fill you with peace and good thoughts. A red maple made flames on the water. The oranges looked good enough to eat. Yellows were cousins of the sun. And the reflections were almost uncanny. The water was a wall of colour, inviting you in with the promise of hearing the story of the seasons. Sleep and renewal, emergence, playfulness and return to sleep. It was difficult walking away from all that beauty. 

Ducks in reflection  on Crescent Lake 

Just before we left, Ward and I visited an chiseled granite chimney - all that remains of a log cabin from the 1920’s, near Kenney Lake. The monolithic old fireplace smokes with mystery. An old shoe, tin cans and thick broken bits of an old, green glass bottle lay on its mantle. Oh to be a witness to the fishing and scotch soaked stories in that old cabin.

Chimney close to Kenney Lake

But there is one scene I witness in real time, one I experience with awe. That is the sight of hundreds of geese heading south. Each year they catch some high swift air and make their pilgrimage to the warm place. As I watch them fly high overhead, if it’s quiet enough down here on the ground, I can hear the geese calling to each other. They might be telling tales of encouragement. Or the lead goose could be chattering about what they will find at their winter home. At the same time they are passing hope all along the line.

Not a bad way to go. Stories to give strength and peace. That’s a great book to snuggle down with at night.

September sunset on Lake Superior