I
n last week’s blog, I told two stories about breaking through winter ice. This week I want to stay with the same topic. The following describes two other times I went through the ice, plus one time I worried I might go through, but then did not.
Story No. 1
When I was growing up, the best natural area within an easy bicycle ride of home was a narrow stretch of public land along a waterway called Baird’s Creek. Even as a teenager, I went down to the creek several times a year, and one winter day Lisa, my high school girlfriend, and I went there for a walk. The main trail crossed the creek in a number of places. Had it been summer, we would have waded through those spots without a second thought. In the wintertime, we had to trust the ice, even though we could hear water gurgling directly below the frozen crust.
At our first crossing, we considered our options and decided that Lisa should go first. She was forty pounds lighter than I was, so it made sense for her to cross before I ruined the integrity of the ice by putting a big hole in it.
We had assessed the situation correctly. Lisa crossed without incident, but I broke through up to my waist. Before I could pull myself out of the cold water, a ten-year old kid ran down one river bank at full speed, glided effortlessly across the ice not two feet in front of me, and then bounded up the opposite bank as if the creek hadn’t been there at all. I felt like Wile E. Coyote after one of its plans had gone awry.
Story No. 2
On a trip across the state to visit family, my mom asked Manyu and me to join her for a walk. The weather was unusually warm for late winter, so I suggested that we do more than walk around the neighborhood. Instead we drove up to Potawatomi State Park, a large nature preserve on the bay of Green Bay about thirty miles north of my mom’s house.
Part of our short hike took us to water’s edge. I thought I was walking on snow-covered sand, but Manyu was certain that I’d ventured out onto the ice. She ordered me to get back to shore. My response was unnecessarily harsh. “I’m not even on the water,” I barked back. “I’m standing on the beach.”
Of course, the words were barely out of my mouth when I broke through the ice. The water was shallow, not even up to my knees, but it didn’t matter. I would have been just as upset had the water been up to my chest. I don’t like being told what to do when I am in the outdoors, and I especially don’t like it when the other person is right. Manyu has come to expect casual carelessness from me when I am in a natural setting, but to her credit she does not throw it back in my face. That may be because she doesn’t know about the other dumb things I do when she isn’t around.
Story No. 3
For a reason that I cannot remember, Clare and I found ourselves on Brice Prairie north of the city. My daughter was about seven or eight years old at the time. We drove past one of my favorite ice fishing spots on Lake Onalaska, so I asked if we could stop for a few minutes to see if anyone was catching fish. As it turned out, no one was on the ice, but I could see evidence of recent fishing a hundred feet offshore. Clare and I walked out to the most heavily fished spot, and I stuck my hand down an open hole to check the thickness of the ice. To my surprise, it was no more than three inches thick.
I immediately told Clare, “Let’s head back, but I want you to walk twenty feet away from me.”
She did as I requested, then asked me why.
“The ice is a little bit thin here,” I said. “We should be fine, but if I break through the ice, I don’t want you standing right next to me.”
We started for shore, and Clare calmly asked, “What should I do when you fall in?”
I hadn’t told Clare what to do if the ice beneath me gave way, but she had thought to ask. One of the great joys of my life has been witnessing the gears turn in my little girl’s head.
* * *
This is enough about ice. Spring is here, and most of the waterways in La Crosse are ice-free. Time to get out the canoe.
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