By Mitch Mode
Special to the Star Journal
The river runs as memory on this March day. Thick ice shrouds the river; one remembers the river but cannot see it. Late winter ice covers all and if one did not have memory one would not know of river; one would not suspect flow and surge of water hidden under ice.
I ski upriver knowing the direction of river flow because of my memory. There is no indication otherwise. I know the ice is thick but how thick? I do not know, know only that March sun brings warmth; ice begins to weaken and the restless river, hidden from view, comes to life. I know the ice will fail and rot. I do not know when.
So I ski on this day, kick and glide, kick and glide, ski upriver on ice that may be thick, may be thin; ice seen from above is without certainty on this matter. Ice breakup will come soon. Today I trust the ice. I ski.
The river pulses beneath the ice, runs silent and steady as lifeblood beneath skin; unseen, unheard but vital. Life sustaining – both water and blood.
The ice is a mystery as is summer fog; both hide more than they show. One cannot tell by looking the strength of the ice or the depth of the fog. One cannot ascertain how thick the ice, how sound the ice, how safe the ice. One knows that under the crust of ice the river flows, ancient and endless, with power and with promise.
I wonder if animals, more in tune with the world than humans, if animals sense the river below. Can they feel the tremor of current? Do they know the river runs there? Do they have memory? Are their senses attuned in a manner unknown to us?
I feel nothing, my feet in sturdy backcountry ski boots over a pair of wide skis. I sense nothing that suggests water. I feel only the slide of ski, hear the raspy whisper of ski on snow. I know that the water moves beneath me, the heartbeat unseen and unfelt of coming spring.
I ski upriver a mile or two. In one place, close to shore, there is moving water, a small ribbon of black water moving fast where the ice has given way. I stand near; watch the flow, the ropy twine of open water that has pushed to the surface and then dives back beneath the ice, a harbinger of what is to come.
A week later I return with Bella and we walk into the valley where I remember the river. On this day a narrow thread of river is open; the ice has given way, the moving water flowing into spring air. Shelves of ice extend over the water then fracture and fall. We walk on remnant ice to the edge of the river now exposed to reality, no longer held to memory.
It is snowing. We stand on the river edge in the falling snow and look across the moving waters. I watch the river and in doing so watch the season. A week ago, firm ice. On this day, moving water.
Open water is irreversible; when it comes to air and sun it does not freeze over again. Snow will come and snow will go; temperature will rise to glory and drop near zero. Fickle. But when the river runs free under the March sun it will not go to ice again until the gray days of winter.
I know this and I know that to watch early season river water is to watch the season changing.
Early water holds menace, a dark spirit, cold and without mercy. Come summer it will flow languidly and inviting; not now, not at first open water of the new season. Now it is one step removed from ice but hardly closer to sustaining warmth.
Bella regards the moving water as if a constellation at her feet. The twisted strands of current, the floating shards of ice. Does she sense the malice of the dark, cold water? Does she feel the inviting trance of moving water as we do, for moving water is as the surge of flame in fire, intoxicating in its power and its mystery.
She moves onto a sloping shelf of thick fallen river ice and I call her back. We leave the river and walk to the truck.
A day later I return, drawn to the drama of it all. New snow overnight, gleaming white, scarred by fresh track. I ski to the tracks. Wolves. A pair of them.
Do the wolves feel the current ‘neath the ice? They must scent the rich water smell, they must know their world is altered. A week ago we, the wolves and I and Bella, could range over the wide meadow of ice. Now the open water shuts it off.
I follow the purposeful track line of the wolves, parallel to the open water. Then the water shifts closer to shoreline and the avenue of the frozen ice constricts as the river takes it. At the end there is not enough ice to walk on, only cold, dark water. The wolf tracks turn into the thick underbrush and are gone.
I turn back and ski along the remaining edge of ice. There is the call of geese and the flit of chickadees. There is high sun of late March. There is ice and there is snow and, now, open water. The scene seems very complex and of the same, very simple.
Soon all traces of ice will be gone and the river will run wide and dark and strong. From the open waters spring will rise and with it hope of better days.
The season does not turn, it flows, flows like the river, flows from ice to water, from freeze to thaw, from dark to bright, from memory to rebirth. I stand in the warmth of the sun and then, in time, ski from the river into a spring day.
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March 31, 2022 at 11:29PM
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Seasons flow like the river - Star Journal - Starjournalnow
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