Of Crows and Men: A Spring Story

 

The crows had already gathered on the disintegrating lake ice of early April.  There must have been at least two dozen of them all together.  Enough to be called a murder. They seemed to just be standing around.  Occasionally, one would dip its beak down to the ice, maybe having a drink of cool refreshing water – a kind of crow water cooler event perhaps – sharing news, telling stories.

 We could see them from our perch on the hill above the beach sitting on a sun-warmed park bench, our legs outstretched on an ottoman of hard drift-packed snow.  In Anishinaabemowin, a crow is called aandeg.  Aan refers to a change that has occurred and dekaa refers to the cold.  According to Joseph Pitawanakwat, when crows play together in springtime, it is a sign that the season has changed. 

In English, the crows are plotting a murder while in Anishinaabemowin, they are enjoying the joys of spring. The presence of the crows gathered out on the early spring ice could have been understood either way if one was paying attention. As we watched the crows, it occurred to me that their presence would provide a wonderful foreshadowing image for the start of a story.

There was little wind and the early evening sun still cast some rays of warmth that our dark clothes soaked up.  From our vantage point we could see some open water close to the mouth of Duck Bay where there was a current going into the larger body of water called Sturgeon Bay.  My partner commented on how peaceful it was sitting there with none of the machines that are frequently heard here in Waubaushene.  Machines such as snowmobiles, snowblowers, leafblowers, chainsaws, wood chippers, lawnmowers, dirt bikes and motorized boats to say nothing of the sound from the major highway that passes by the edge of the village on its way to Toronto.

As soon as he finished speaking, as if by way of foreshadowing, we heard the distant whine of an engine from the shoreline to the south.  The engine sound got louder and we both realized that it was the sound of a snowmobile – on the ice.  Every year, snowmobilers go through the ice around this time of the year and so it is hard to understand why people would continue this practice.  Alcohol may have had something to do with these decisions or so it is said.

Two snowmobiles came into view from the south as they headed straight for the beach along the shoreline. I held my breath even though the ice seemed to be holding up the two machines.  Once they got to the beach, one of the men made a ninety degree turn away from the shore so that he was heading towards the deeper part of the bay.  He gunned the engine repeatedly and travelled about a hundred feet.  Once again, I held my breath and searched for my phone.

“He’s in,” said my partner as we watched the snowmobile break through the thin ice and sink into the water.  I got my phone out, prepared to call for help but the driver stood up and the water was only to his chest.  The snowmobile was vertical and sticking out of the ice.  The other driver stopped his machine and walked over to the hole as the downed driver, soaking wet by now, clambered onto the ice.  The two men talked for a bit and then tried to pull the vertical snowmobile onto the ice.  Predictably, they both broke through and ended up in the frigid lake water once again.  I still had my phone in my hand but other people had gathered at the top of the hill at that point and one woman called 911 for help.  A pair of crows flew overhead surveying the scene.

Then the two men got on the still functioning snowmobile and drove away back down the shoreline in the direction from which they had come.  The people who had gathered on the land, left as well.  We could see the crows still out on the ice safely enjoying their gathering.  If the men on the snowmobiles had understood that the crows’ behaviour was signalling a change of season, they could have avoided this unfortunate event.  No need for the crows to plot a murder with humans acting in ways that could result in disaster.

Once again, we were alone at the beach.  We waited for the rescuers so that they would know that there was no one in the water.  Two firetrucks with six volunteer firefighters, two police officers in separate cars, a rescue truck with two divers in dry suits and a drone operator plus one ambulance filled the parking lot with flashing lights and sirens.  I’ll bet that got the attention of the crows who like such shiny things.  Perhaps they thought we were having a spring celebration as they were.

We spoke to the first firefighter and told him the story.  We walked him along the long concrete pier so that he could see where the snowmobile had broken through the ice.  The rescuers were happy that no one had lost their life and they good naturedly went along with the business of having two divers verify that there was no body and that there was indeed a snowmobile under the water.

After a while, one of the snowmobilers came back.  He spoke rudely to the rescuers and when asked to speak to the police officer, he sped back down the bay.  The rescuers didn’t seem bothered by this.  Instead, they sent a drone up to follow his tracks and make sure that he hadn’t broken through the ice anywhere else.  This was not their first experience of drunken snowmobilers getting into trouble or so they said.

More villagers gathered at the pier, telling stories of near misses on the lake on snowmobiles, of calling for an ambulance and only getting a cop because the dispatcher thought it was a prank call.  It was spring after all and many of us hadn’t seen each other in months.  We heard the news of a neighbour in a care facility, of a trip to Florida, and of a new baby in the village whose father coincidentally was one of the volunteer firefighters at the scene.  Every now and then a big laugh would erupt from the group of rescuers at the end of the pier.  “What would a group of rescuers be called?” I wondered.  A relief of rescuers, a response of rescuers?

Eventually, one of the police officers came and took our details as we were witnesses to the event.  We told our story one more time. Some of the villagers made sure to thank the rescuers for their service.  And then, the rescuers walked back to their respective rescue vehicles and made their way back up the hill and out of town.  A few villagers lingered on the park benches and we told the story one more time.

The crows were still out on the ice doing whatever it was that they were doing.  Did they wonder what all the flashing lights, people in funny gear and laughter was about.  Perhaps we are as much a mystery to them as they are to us.  Being a light bird who can fly makes standing on the early spring ice quite safe.  They know what they are doing.  Driving a heavy machine onto the same ice while probably under the influence of some substance is not safe.  Those men did not know what they were doing. 

But as one police officer said, “No one died,” despite the murder of crows and the choices of the men.  The machine will get pulled out of the lake by more rescuers.  People got something to watch and so did the crows.  Relationships were renewed and the feeling of spring buoyed everyone’s spirits. Perhaps some lessons were learned by the men on the snowmobiles, perhaps not. It was not a new story for the village but a seasonal one that was nevertheless told and retold for days to come. Perhaps even the crows told one another about the excitement out on the spring ice.