Cautious steps out into a singing ice
For more than 24 hours, as I sit beginning to write this, the wind has been gusting strong. Definitely it is not relenting from last night in the centre of a lake. Specific edges and corners of this perfect little home allow through the most subtle drafts if you are sensitive enough. The wind audibly rumbles along the exterior walls, and the windows shake a bit in the strongest gusts. It wakes me in the middle of the night.
I don’t mind it at all. It’s the exact winter I love most, such harsh conditions outside and the cosiest safe place inside.
"I knew within seconds of stepping out of my car; I was severely underdressed."
That safe and cosy place sometimes is nestling right into my parka in an otherwise open and exposed, brutal environment. The fur trim of my hood wraps up and around my face, always catching my peripheral vision.
Despite tucking my chin right down into the top of my parka zipped all the way up, my poor little nose could not be spared. A balaclava would have been nice. There was little doubt I also should have had mittens instead of gloves, and my mukluks instead of hiking boots.
My fingers and toes froze, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tiptoe back across the ice to the car to properly warm them up. The aurora was too beautiful, and in that obsessed-with-the-power-of-nature kind of the way, the brutal wind was too special. It was raw. But even still, moments of turning away to shelter from the wind felt less of a conscious choice than pure instinctual reaction.
"Facing the wind head on was the only option if I wanted to watch her dance."
Like a cross between a wind tunnel and whales communicating
The ice sung all night, and it was even more beautiful than the few nights before. It was the most perfect company—an ultimate soothing in the chaos of the wind.
Usual high and low pitch bubbles of sound were consistent throughout the night. They were gentle and soothing, and as if you were listening in super slow motion. It’s comforting far more than it is unsettling.
