Wrapped in all available outerwear, we tumbled from home’s confines. Cabin fever had taken its toll, and we were ready for adventure.
Marching single file, we picked our way down the rutted path. Rendered treacherous by the freeze, it dipped and curved, but we held our footing. A bald eagle glided above. In the distance, ice boats sailed unnaturally fast, calling us forward to investigate.
Thickened ice crusts bent at angles along the shore. Intrigued, we began to estimate their thickness. A movement developed to leave the path, to venture onto the ice, but caution held us back, and we continued on. In the distance, half way across the lake, we spotted two figures dragging children’s sleds behind them. To our west, an ice fishing house came into view. Momentum gathered, and we crept down the hill onto the lake’s slick surface.
Hand in hand with my son, we stepped gingerly forward. My husband kept his distance, to avoid concentrating weight in one area, he later explained. We walked and talked, steady of feet but shaky in resolve. Dozens of yards out, the ice cracked, and cracked again. What to do if we went in? Should we have brought a rope, an inner tube, or come out in our canoe, propelling it with sticks? These frivolous questions were enough to make us reverse course. Giddy, grateful, and on solid ground again, our trek resumed.
An arched green sail pasted itself against blue skies, sucking a skater along behind it. An ATV, like a circus clown interrupting a graceful high wire act, suddenly roared by. Two men played hockey, gaily waving hello as though we were old friends.
Motorcycles pierced the air with their roar, carving an oval path in the center of the action. A lone ice fisher sat on his pail, line dropped into his augered hole. Youngsters skated, a fire burned in a raised pit, and we joined in. The party was on.
