On March 7, we had a beautiful winter storm.
Allan, Kate and I went snowshoeing to a beautiful little lake
not far from home. Back in March I wrote, "We walked out onto
the lake, right back into the fury of the storm. Huge waves of
snow piled up on the lake. I tucked into the hood of my coat,
and marvelled at the splendour of this small lake. The far side
had a very steep slope, with a few cliffs along the way. Months
of spring-water seeping over the rock had formed beautiful
icefalls."
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Over the two-week period as I watched the ice
melt away from our lake, I thought of those cliffs and ice
falls. I wanted to go back there as soon as I could.
The day the ice moved far enough from shore
for me to get there, I took the canoe and portaged a half
kilometre to get to the beautiful little lake. I had a rare,
calm spring day, with just enough sun to take the chill out of
the air.
The icefalls remain a wonder of nature. As I
slipped the canoe into the water, I felt drawn to the far shore
where a couple of them still clung to the cliffs. Four metres
high, and four metres wide, this magnificent wall of ice slowly
dripped away under the cool spring sun.
I paddled all around the little lake,
remembering the huge drifts of pure white snow, where now lies
flat, dark water. During the storm in March, we could
barely see the huge pines that grow on the
steep shore. Now they were reflected in the perfection of the
glassy calm lake.
Halfway around the lake, I pulled the canoe
ashore at a narrow cleft in the steep hillside. A burbling
little creek tumbled down. I walked upstream as far as I easily
could, just as I had nearly two months ago. Now the metre deep
snow was gone, and I could see the little tumble of water fall
that I could only hear at the last visit.
Back in early March I wrote, "Looking up the
remaining valley, and up higher still at the trees all around,
at that moment in time, I stood in the most magnificent place
in the world."
On this day in late April, the feeling
remained.
Walking back to the canoe, I stepped along
the edge of the creek, then along the steep hillside.
An immense white pine reached straight up for
the sky. I hugged it, of course. And I wondered how it had
escaped the sawyer's blade a hundred years ago. Even then, it
would have been an appealing size.
In the water below lay much smaller logs that
were cut a hundred years ago, but for some reason lost and left
behind. They bore the mark of the
company brand.
Looking around as I wandered back to the
canoe, there were several of these massive white pines on the
steep hillside. All adding to the magic of this pretty little
lake.
Viki Mather lives by a lake near Sudbury.
