Listening for the song of ice - Viki Mather

The wind died in the middle of the afternoon. Within a few hours, the lake disappeared under a maze of ice crystals.

We were on our way home in the boat, knowing it was to be our last crossing of the year. I was surprised to see so many floes of crystalline ice — we had only been away for two hours. There was no indication of new ice when we left.

Ice forms as if by magic on the surface of the lake. As our boat slowly waded thorough the brand new ice, I marvelled at the beauty of it all.
Once we got back to our dock, we took everything out of the boat.

Oars and lifejackets were put into the shed; gas tank, bailer and emergency kit stowed away. Allan prepared the motor for a long winter’s storage, then took it off the boat. Then he pulled the boat well up on shore.

We don’t always time it this well. More often than not, we refuse to acknowledge that the ice is coming to stay. We leave the boat afloat one too many nights, then have to spend an hour chipping it out the next day.

But then the ice doesn’t often form during the day. Most of the new ice comes in the night when the air is still, and the sky is clear. During the daytime, there is usually a breeze of some sort or another. The little waves that follow the wind keep the ice crystals from joining together.

On this day, we had left home heading straight into the northwest wind. It wasn’t a strong wind, but just enough to chill our bones as we headed out. By the time we came back, the wind had shifted to south. When we rounded the corner from the big lake into our bay, the wind disappeared.

Our long, skinny bay faces straight to the northwest. It is totally protected from any south wind. So as soon as the wind died, the ice began to grow.
I kept watching over the next two hours, stepping outside now and then to get a good look. A faint mist rose from the surface as the ice grew. At dusk I walked down to the sauna and sat at the end of the dock.

I sat quietly and listened. The growing ice made no noise. The evening was silent as it could be — as it always is on a calm December night. There were still pools of water where no ice had come. I watched and watched — hoping to see the ice grow.

Despite the cold, no matter the calm, I could not see any change as I watched. Long sword-like crystals lanced out. Delicate lacy crystals reached back. There was a space of about three feet between them. I knew they would each expand until they touched the other side — but I saw nothing move, saw nothing grow.

Ping! Ice of a single crystal thickness began to sing! A little to my left, the ice stretched and pinged again. A few minutes later, another Ping! to the right. Song of ice, a lovely concert to enjoy.

The calm remained through the night. When we woke the next morning, our whole bay had frozen. Light mist still wafted just above the surface. At the end of the bay, a heavy mist was drifting along in the soft, southern breeze. There would be open water, kept ice-free by the wind.

The ice in our bay was solid — more than an inch thick. It was not yet enough to walk on. It would take a second cold, clear night to make it safe. Unless the wind shifted.

If the wind were to return to the northwest, much of that ice would shatter. Half the bay could easily open up again. And if it does, you may see us out in the boat just one more time.

Viki Mather has been writing for Northern Life since the spring of 1984. She is taking us back to some of those older writings as she prepares to publish a book of “In the Bush.” This one was originally published in December 2000.

Posted by Vivian Scinto