The thinnest skim of ice has formed on the ponds and slow-moving creek near us. It’s clear and has wrinkles and pleats, like plastic wrap. Water fowl aren’t walking on it yet, but we’re starting to see rocks and sticks on it. Children, eager to skate, throw them out there to see what weight the new ice will hold, even though they know it isn’t ready yet. Waiting for skating ice can feel arduous.
Skaters know what to look for. Sometimes wave action textures the ice as it freezes, like pebbled glass, or worse, glass with wave patterns. Sometimes freezing rain pocks the surface. You don’t want this. Spongy ice can’t be trusted; steer clear of it. Opacity is a good start, but look carefully. Can you see muskrat runs under the ice? They look like trails. Muskrats use them to travel around in the water. If you can see the runs, don’t skate there. If the ice is thick enough, you can still skate somewhere else on the pond. Just don’t skate there. If you see cracks in the ice, you can’t skate there at all. If you hear cracking noises, skate very fast right off the ice.
Even when the ice looks right, you have to wait until it’s thick enough to skate on. Grownups decide this. They find out by auguring or drilling down into the ice and measuring how deep it is. If it’s deep enough, and the adults believe the ice is safe, one of them will go out on it first—because we love our children. Also because ice doesn’t form uniformly across a body of water. Sometimes, it makes sense to measure the depth of the ice in more than one spot. After that, it’s time for skating and the fun begins.
We didn’t have to wait through all this rigamarole to skate on Mr. Ticknor’s fields of harvested corn, when we were kids. The fields across from our house did not drain well, to Mr. Ticknor’s dismay and our delight. No one felt a need to test that ice for us. No one made us wait. Those tracts of corn stubble were our enormous winter playgrounds.
Blustery days with wind out of the west were ideal. We would slog our way to the western edge of the field, whose rows of corn Mr. Ticknor planted east-west. We’d turn around, brace ourselves, and unzip our jackets. Then we would open them wide, and let the west wind blow us all the way back across the field. My friends and I would do this over and over, till our moms called us back in the house. There was nothing like that high-speed sail across the rough ice down the rows of corn stalks, jackets wide and bones rattling. It. Was. Thrilling.
There were rinks in town, including one the neighborhood dads made in the park across the street from our house, and we loved skating there. At the rink in Burns Park, you mostly just skated in a circle, but that was fun because of all the people doing it. At our neighborhood rink, we could play games with kids we knew.
Skating at our cottage was special in a different way. We left the bumpy lake ice to the ice fishermen. The canal always froze smooth, perfect for skating. One year a freeze slow enough to allow the air bubbles to escape created ice that was thick and clear. We spent a lot of time that winter lying on the ice, peering down into the depths.
The greatest thing about the ice at the cottage was Grandpa. He’d have augured and tested the ice before we got there. He’d have shoveled snow off the canal to make a place where it was easy to skate. He’d even installed a grinding wheel in the garage to keep everyone’s skates sharp. But best of all, when we came around the last curve onto Bluewater Drive, we might see Grandpa himself out on the ice. We’d catch a glimpse of him skating backwards, watching for us, and we’d all wave.
Grandpa grew up in Canada. He was a fine skater. As soon as the car stopped, we’d all lace up and join him on the ice. There would be shrieking, laughing, and carrying on. Maybe a game like fox and geese. Mom and Dad would skate with us for a while. Grandpa would skate with us until we were all ready to go inside and warm up.
Skating ice is worth waiting for, a Michigan perk. Sometimes it feels like a privilege to live here.
24 December 2021