On Ice

Yesterday, I took a walk on Lake Mendota.

Lake walks are a wonderful activity, enjoying the lapping waves against the shore and the sun glinting off the water.  In the summer; but this was March 1st during one of the coldest winters in 20 years.

I would guess my jaunt took me about 200 yards or so off shore.

Just looking around me, I noticed fishing shanties in the distance; a small lighthouse; and a pressure ridge of ice that was re-frozen.

Mendota's water is frozen solid - 18 inches deep or more.  In a few places the snow had been blown clear and the rock ice gave a solemn glare.

It's as much as 64 feet deep in places - but right now it more closely resembles a vast prairie or a massive parking lot dusted with snow.

As I walked out from the shore, following ATV tracks anglers used to carry their gear to their fishing holes, the snow crunched like new Styrofoam  being wrestled out of an appliance box.

That and the wind blowing in my face were the only sounds.  The noise from the city streets faded with each step away from land.

Walking on water is not something that I usually do.  First, most of the year I simply couldn't, and most of the remainder my concerns for the depth of ice would lead me to stay safely on shore.

Since I don't fish much, and have never fished through the ice this was something completely different.

I wasn't dressed to spend a long time out on the ice, but I hope to do this again.

A sunny day with less wind would be good. 

It's a strange feeling. 

There is a sense of being part of the environment, not a passive observer.

The footsteps and tire tracks are so small against the vastness of ice.

The evidence of pressure ridges reminded that at just the right time (or wrong time), this apparently solid ice could open up and create a final water slide.

Mostly there is a sense of the moment.  The ice can hold me and thousands of others right now.  In a few weeks... certainly less than a month... the ice will dissolve like cubes in a fountain drink.

These vantage points don't happen every winter, and are not usually safely available for this long - if you have the opportunity, get out there and walk.