Hairline Cracks
June 4th, 1:15 P.M. — I have paddled on Wollaston Lake in Northern Saskatchewan long enough on this first day of the season for my untested muscles to tighten. My winter’s work, the never-ending job of cutting and carrying locust posts out of the woods, has left me slack. I especially love the brutality of dealing with the old butt cuts too big to handle. For those I drove steel wedges with the eight pound hammer into their hard crooked grain until with a satisfying pop, they split into a size I could balance on my shoulder. On days too rough to do fencing work, I had the incessant walking in the river bottom and the hills beyond; none of these things prepared me. This cold wind off the ice, perhaps, will cleanse me for what is to come.
1:56 P.M. — I see the ice line ahead.
3:17 P.M. — I have paddled into the rotten ice. This spring ice, no matter how thick it may appear, has holes, cracks, pressure ridges and weak spots. Judging the strength of its surface degenerates into an act of faith. My attempts to speculate on how much farther I can push along the edge of this rotten ice before the last lead closes only brings home my lack of experience. If the edges of this spring ice appeared just a little less unstable, I would consider pulling the canoe out on its surface and using it as a sled, with the idea of jumping back into the canoe when the ice gave away underneath when I misjudged its…
