Christmas On The Frozen Pond

"Every mile is two in winter."
George Herbert
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The weather radar showed a band of snow moving our way throughout the Christmas morning. A few flakes began to fall in the afternoon around 1:30. I was debating on whether I would finally get me cross-county skis out on the pond or if I would just put the hiking boots on and trudge around the pond. By the time the wife and I had got the Christmas dinner turkey tucked safely into the often, it was too late for the skis. So I put on the hiking boots on and headed for the pond.

By the time I got going, the snow was coming down in big fluffy flakes. There would be shoveling to do later. Whether tonight or tomorrow depends on when the snow runs its course. For now, it was time for some fresh air and exercise on Christmas Day.

I first hiked on the pond in the winter of 1988. Back then, it was harder to get to it. Cows in the neighbor's field meant fences to climb over. The cows are gone and most of the fence has been removed to let snowmobiles -- what's left of them -- through. Over those 20 years, I've encountered a variety of conditions on the pond around the Christmas holidays. There's been hip-deep snow that allowed me to use my snowshoes. There's been bare ice. There's been a good base of snow that made for a perfect base for cross-county skiing. It's been near +50 degrees and near -20 wind 30 mile per hour wind. Regardless of the conditions, there is always solitude.

Having hiked around the pond a few weeks ago, I already knew the early heavy snow falls on the thin ice have made for some slushy spots that trap water between the ice and the snow. If you happened to be skiing and hit one of these spots, the slush immediately fuses to the bottom of your skis and suddenly things suck. It's times like this that you realise back-country cross-country skiing is not the same outdoor activity practiced on the trails at the local state parks. Spandex and ski wax are replaced by sticker burrs and a Vise-grip to cut away the old barbwire fences. It ain't a glamour sport.

Working my way around the southwest side of the pond, there were quite a few larger trees that had been blown over during the straight line wind storm in mid-August. I was surprise to see that many of the downed trees were larger oaks. On further investigation, these oaks where rotted out in the center and hollow. They would make nice nesting sites for the local owl population.

As I rounded a point of land jutting out on the south side, I came upon what I've always called "Bill's Bay." I names it after Ol' Bill who used to live in the farm overlooking the bay. Bill passed away in 1991 and the pine trees have grown up high enough to block the view of the old house. However, the old red barn can be seen from the pond.

A decade or so ago, this was a good spot to see owls. A family of great horned owls nested in a prominent tree along the shore. I had also seen an occasional barn owl that lurked in the old red barn. Life was good for the owls while Bill was still around. After a few years of being vacant, a new family with children moved into the house and the activity level around the lake shore picked up. After few years later, a housing development sprouted up on the north side of the pond. The owls still inhabit the area, because we can hear them at night and occasionally see them working the field at dusk.


Since my digital camera allows me to take pictures and delete them with a simple click, I have the chance to pretend I'm a skilled nature photographer. I figure you have to get snow on your knees and down you neck to get an interesting shot. I climbed under one of the trees that was snapped off in August and took an upward shot. It ended up looking like a tangle of birch branches and probably won't make it on any upcoming calendar pictures.

As I rounded the far end of the pond, I came on a large patch of cattails. In the snow, they looked rather picturesque. A took a few pictures behind the cattails looking to the east. What you don't see are the houses that now overlook the lake on the west side. Ten years ago, those houses where a cornfield. I would regularly a coyote that had a den on in the hill on the edge of the cornfield. It's still a nice spot to catch some solitude on a winter afternoon and I'm sure the people in the houses enjoy the view of the wildlife that frequent the pond and the surrounding fields during the different seasons.



I guess that's progress. It's a different kind of solitude today. A decade ago I could sit on a stump drinking my can of orange juice and eating a granola bar and not contemplate the houses with the windows that no doubt have people looking out of them contemplating the guy on the stump with the can of orange juice. But then again, ten years ago, snowmobiles blasted by on a regular basis and now the housing developments and global warming have decreased the number of snowmobiles and rerouted the tail.

I have proof that the city has encroached on the solitude of the pond. One of the early settlers in the housing development told me why they put streetlights along the development road. At first there weren't included in the plans, but then the settlers complained about how dark it was at night and the developers put the lights in.

With those thoughts in mind, I rounded the bend and headed up the hill to the house with a big appetite for a turkey dinner on Christmas Day.