The great eraser

One reason for building our place here on Birch Lake was to be able to experience a lake in all seasons. Most of my time up north had been in summer; here and there a weekend in autumn, never in winter. Now we spend about half our days here, year-round. This has been an interesting winter on the frozen water.

When we left here for home earlier in January, about eight inches of snow covered the lake. The snow had been trampled by ice anglers, packed down by snowmobiles and four-wheel-drive vehicles, laced with the tracks of skiers and snowshoers (and dented with my own bootprints and Freckles' paw marks).

While we were away for a couple of weeks, a warm spell melted the snow down. Then came a few inches of new powder, followed by a windy spell. By the time we arrived again four days ago, the lake was nearly a blank canvas, an expanse of white mottled with patches of bare blue-black ice.

On that whitescape I walked yesterday (with Freckles) and today (alone). The snow was a bit crusty in places, and there the wind had carved out miniature mesas. Looking down on them reminded me of flying over the desert landscape of Arizona or New Mexico, the wind having sculpted from snow in a few days what it took millions of years to fashion out of sandstone.

Most interesting, though, were the patches of bare ice, most of them no bigger than the surface of a summer swim raft. Every one was different, some showing large bubbles below the surface, others nearly opaque blue-white, one spot so clear I could see all the way through an imagine looking at the bottom, in that place (I know from the lake map) about 25 feet below below my boots. A stress crack in that area revealed an ice thickness of at least 10 inches, allaying any fears I may have had for my safety, standing over such deep water. 

I walked from one of these bare, irregular ice patches to the next as if connecting dots. Freckles soon learned to stay on the snow to avoid losing control of his legs; I stepped a little carefully on the ice myself, knowing the damage a hard fall could do to my 60-year-old frame.

It's magical seeing the lake this way. One day I need to learn how to punch holes in this ice and catch a few walleyes for dinner. Right now, though, I wish it would snow. We're in a winter drought, and the land needs moisture. At this latitude we still have two months to make up the shortfall.