Never the Same

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December 8
Every year I watch the ice form here on Birch Lake, and every year it happens differently. Sometimes the ice gradually creeps out from the shoreline, and an entire sheet takes shape over several days.

Sometimes spells of warm weather and wind do battle with the cold and calm, so that near-shore ice that formed on the chilliest nights stays in place, but the ice farther out ebbs and flows.

Then there are years like this one. We had an unusually warm autumn, so that by mid-November the lake wasn’t as cold as it normally would be. Late November was quite cold but also quite windy, so that the ice couldn’t get a toehold, not even near shore.

On the last November days the temperature sank to well below freezing, but the winds kicked up even more and kept the water. And then it happened. The bitter cold remained, the wind died down overnight, and on Sunday morning, December 1, a skin of ice covered all but a few stubborn pools of water out toward the middle.

At that point the weather forecast called for at least seven days with highs in the low 20s and overnight lows much colder. That was good news, since Sonya and Chad and the grandsons were to arrive on December 13 for a long weekend visit. It was sort of a race against time: Would the ice thicken up enough to enable safe skating and ice fishing?

As it turned out, the weather threw us a curve. First three or four inches of snow covered the ice, creating a layer of insulation to retard the freezing process. Then this weekend a warm front moved in, boosting temperatures into the high 30s, and even the low 40s at midday. The snow melted off our porch and walkway, and even mostly off the steps down to the lake.

I went down this morning with a shovel and cleared the remaining snow from the stairs, then made my first foray of the season onto the ice, staying near shore where, if I broke through, I would sink into water no more than waist deep. Could I trust this ice?

As it happened, although the ice felt sound underfoot, the snow had turned to slush. A couple dozen yards from shore, circles of trampled slush, connected by strings of boot prints, told me someone had been out there fishing.

But when I looked for the telltale perfectly round holes made by an auger, I saw instead holes about two feet across. That meant one of two things: the angler had punched crude, large openings in the ice with something like a spud bar, or the melting had substantially enlarged the auger holes. Being inclined to play it safe, I declined to investigate further.

So the race against time continues. Will the next four (predicted) very cold days thicken and solidify the ice sufficiently? Before they kids gets here I’ll need to take my electric auger out, drill some test holes, and see how much ice we really have.