Originally published in Lake of the Woods Area News, Volume 54, Number 5, Winter 2024
Whenever I think of winter, I think of resting; of hibernation; of silence on our remote island; but the one thing that I think of most, being a steward of the lake, is the healing that winter brings to that beautiful body of water that we so love. It is as though nature itself has provided this time for the great northern body to dispense of all human impact—to rest and revitalize.
The terns turn
It was mid-September. A lovely fall day. Feeling that late summer feeling. Cool mornings but kissed by lovely warm sunshine by afternoon. Leaves were turning. Our garden on the island lay dormant as we picked the last of the root vegetables. Most seasonal residents had left.
The air suddenly filled with boisterous squeals. The shrill of a huge quantity of terns melding with the wavering call, called the tremolo of adolescent loons. We hurried down to the water’s edge at the northwestern shore of our island to see this incredible dense population of two very different types of water birds. They appeared almost to be a floating raft as they drifted down the lake and finally out of sight, their calls no longer distinguishable. I imagined the immature loons who left several weeks after their parents to be guided south by these gliding long-distance migratory birds. It was the terns turn to lead the way.
The day would end quickly with a bruised horizon on the lake as the fire ball of the sun dipped quickly. It left us at twilight to light lanterns and prepare for dinner.
Beeping and billows
Halloween had passed. As usual, a light dusting of snow came but did not stay. The earth’s warmth dissolved the crystals. November came and the lake water thickened like turning maple sap to maple syrup. Snowflakes dropped silently from the sky, briefly staying afloat on the water, accumulating here and there and then sinking below.
Shallow bays had already frozen, but not so on our island on Whitefish Bay where depths around us were sixty feet to over 200 feet from north to south. Our boat was in storage, and we waited, alone.
December came and gradually the ice formed from shore, creeping outwards, bridging the gap between our island and neighbouring islands. Nothing seemed to move, no bird, no mammal, no humans—only the ice and the wisps of smoke from our chimney. Temperatures plummeted to -21°C. The start of winter in the north.
We awoke to the chatter of thousands of birds chirping and tweeting. Our single pane windows did nothing to stop the insistent chatter. It was the lake. Overnight the ice had extended, building a fragile fortress around us. The delicate ice crystals were not strong enough to be a solid mass. The water below was in constant flux and so the tiny crystals collided on each other creating a masterful orchestra.
The last of the waters of the lake would take two to three weeks to freeze over. The deepest part of Whitefish Bay resisted. Great billows of steam angrily rose from its surface as though defying the inevitable.
Skiing and mushing
Time seemed to stop. Freeze-up was upon us. The ice was safe enough to walk around our shoreline, but it was not safe to make our way to mainland. Mainland was four and a half miles away, over the deepest part of the lake. It was not safe. Not yet.
We had adopted a method of checking the ice told to us by one of the people who spent his whole life on the lake. We had a heavy needle bar. Thrown ahead like a javelin the heavy bar would bounce off the ice or go through. If it bounced, we had enough to walk. I would not suggest this method for anyone.
We cross country skied to mainland late December using the needle bar the whole distance and particularly cautious over the deepest section that froze last. We had three to four inches of solid ice.
My husband had worked with our Alaskan Malamute on land to pull a toboggan. We had invested in a cedar custom made kick sled, light weight with thick Teflon glides. I took the journey numerous times across the lake. The four and a half miles took us approximately twenty minutes. I stood on the runners as Sekima easily raced ahead.
Alone no more
By January 1, our lives were interrupted with snow machines and trout fishermen; by the formation of ice roads criss-crossing the expanse. Their arrival brought new freedoms but also a mild sense of invasion to a world that can only be defined as total solitude; only defined by your own thoughts and that of your small unit—as we were—by just a couple and their malamute. But the lake did not mind. There was so much left of winter’s rest. Three feet or more of ice protecting her, it was just the start of her five-month sleep.
