The calling
The almost u-turn
As I crossed the Yellowknife River a few minutes from town, I just about pulled into the snowy shoulder of the highway to make an immediate u-turn.
The sunlight was bright on my face, catching all the beautiful ice crystals on the passenger side windows — the obviously shady side of the car in my driveway.
The temperature was around -15°C, but despite that, the ice build up on the side of the river appeared paper thin at most. I could get home, get my kayak and paddles in my car, trade my mukluks for hiking boots, my parka for a couple layers of wool, and be scooting out into the river in my kayak in less than an hour.
I resisted though, and carried on driving further out, hoping I was making the right decision.
"Driving soothes me."
The ice calling out
As I drove over Yellowknife River, I actually didn’t know where I was going yet. Somewhere far out from town, but no where in particular. Of course this is just as well; driving soothes me. The entire countryside was covered in hoar frost, beautiful as ever. I caught myself many times slowed to below the speed limit, watching out in awe.
I found myself far out from town, alone on a lake that I have no idea just how far it stretches or behind how many corners it carries on.
Remember a few posts ago I asked you to ‘hold your thumbs’ for me, or cross your fingers for some luck, that I could make a small recording of the singing ice?
Well I really hope you will enjoy this short video. I don’t know the first thing about editing or cleaning up sound recordings, so you will need a quiet space and a high volume to be able to hear a little bit of my experience, and one that is far more surreal in person than through a camera without a proper microphone just resting on top of the ice, of course.
In all of these moments, it was like life had never been more perfect. The feeling of utter perfection in the sunlight, the delicate beauty in the fallen snowflakes and formed ice crystals, the cracks everywhere in the ice - I was really sure I had never lived a more beautiful experience.
All the singing of the ice, sometimes so loud I could easily hear it despite the crunch of the snow as I walked, and the insulation of my toque and hood. I really don’t think there is a more beautiful sound. It is soothing and calming in an overwhelming but completely natural and familiar way.
“This environment is my heaven, but it’s not free of struggle.”
The harshness of winter persists
Part of my love of winter is it’s unforgiving nature. The lightest breezes, which sound like category 5 hurricanes on camera, by the way, are numbingly uncomfortable. I repeatedly curl my fingers and thumbs into the palms of my hands inside my mittens in a desperate grasp for warmth, and sometimes even just a few seconds of contact with the metal barrel of a camera lens to set the focus can be incredibly painful.
Time standing still
Lying down on the ice, keeping a mostly exact stillness in my body, it seemed like I could stay there forever. Each sound of the ice as beautiful and interesting as the last. When I would lift my head and look in another direction, each time it struck me how much the light and the sky all around had changed. Time was passing so quickly while the whole world felt so still.
Toward the end, I was lying facing the sunset in the southwest, but back in the northeast, the earth’s shadow and the Belt of Venus were becoming more discernible. Darkness was falling and I needed to start back across the lake for my car, covered again in a light layer of ice crystals already.
