Walking on Wet Ice

My eyes followed the black trunk and branches of the Maple tree outside of my window on Saturday morning.  The January rain made the wood black and the foggy light behind the tree created a striking silhouette of connected lines. Everything was simplified into black and white.  This made the pattern more obvious and beautiful.  The only movement I detected were two Grey Squirrels that despite their name, were black.  They ran along the network of tree branches and trunks like highways, like nerve impulses along the dendrites of the brain.  Ideas ran along the dendrites of my brain as I gazed at the simple scene outside.

The day would be all about temperature and precipitation.  In the morning it was raining but, as the temperature was predicted to fall, that rain might turn into ice pellets, freezing rain and eventually snow.  So, we went out for our usual Saturday morning breakfast and then a wet hike through the woods of our usual hiking area.  We wore waterproof boots, pants, coats and hats and set off into the woods.  But the deep snow was transforming into deep pools of water on top of ice, so we stuck to the berms and boardwalks around the marsh instead.  Where there are usually dozens of Trumpeter Swans, only three remained.  The flock of ducks flew off as we approached.  Perhaps the other swans are nestled under Cedar trees, or perhaps there is lots of open water for them to feed from somewhere else.

As I carefully watched the ground ahead of me for ice I placed my feet on solid ground, or carefully on wet ice.  I wondered what the land had to teach me that day.  We were the only ones out there on the trails and some might think us foolhardy.  But, it is important for us to renew our relationship with the land by walking on it, by listening, by paying attention so out there we were.

I thought about how we dislike and fear transitions.  Talk of freezing rain makes people think of car accidents, power outages and broken bones.  We don’t like having to pay attention to the weather changing in order to navigate our days.  We prefer to plan from inside our heads with no negotiating with the land, with the elements.

As I picked my way carefully along the trail, I had to negotiate with ice, wet snow, pools of water, my boots, my walking sticks, the speed of my gait, and, the way I put each foot down on the land.  It reminded me of a mindfulness walk in which you are present in your own body and conscious of what is going on inside of you and around you.  I had to walk carefully, thoughtfully on the land to keep myself safe.  In “good” weather, I can walk mindlessly on the land, deep in my own thoughts about things far away.

I wonder if transitions demand more mindfulness and since we are addicted to being fairly unconscious, this demand on our attention is seen as an irritant.  Our world is in transition at the moment as well.  Does that demand more attention, more consciousness as well?  It would seem so.

When I was younger, I used to fall a lot.  Now that I am older, I try not to, but am not always successful.  I use hiking poles to walk in slippery conditions.  I use the information that I get from the feel of the pole as I plant it in front of me, to understand the nature of the surface I am on.  Even in the dark, I can detect ice or concrete under a thin layer of snow.  This helps me to know when to slow down and be more careful.  Without them, I am trying to feel the surface through the thick soles of my boots.  I end up bending over slightly, unconsciously lowering my centre of gravity.  With the poles I stand upright and listen to what I feel through my hands.  If I start to slip, the poles give me more stability as well.

We are navigating through difficult, confusing times.  Perhaps we need tools other than our thickly clad feet to find our way.  Perhaps, we need support systems and communities in place in case we start to slip.  Perhaps we need to be in closer relationship with our world to keep us safe.  Sliding into unconsciousness probably won’t do the trick.

Well, the freezing rain did pass through, then ice pellets and then a kind of sugary snow.  The next morning, we had to melt the ice off of the car windows, scrape, move snow and then off we went again.  This time we took our cross country skis to the same forest.  We had to set trail on the ungroomed forest trail and we took turns doing this.  Now, I had to read the amount of glide that my skis had on the snow to judge the amount of power to use.  My ski poles told me about the depth of the snow and if ice lay underneath.  My face told me that it was close to -20 degrees Celcius with the wind chill as my face burned. 

The same forest looked totally different with the snow covering it.  We stayed on the higher trails in case the puddles of the day before were still not quite frozen.  Squirrels, rabbits and deer had already been moving about that morning.  Their foot and hoof prints told their story.  We had to pay attention to which trails to take.  As we climbed a few small hills, we had to pay attention on the angle to put our skis so we wouldn’t slide backwards.  It was easy going as the snow wasn’t very slippery.

I marveled at how different the two days were due to a change in temperature.  Different skills were required to navigate the trails.  Our attention was fully on being where we were.  And so, we didn’t get lost out there, we didn’t get wet, and we arrived back at the main building a while later.  We were able to give a report of the trail to the front desk person to share with subsequent skiers.  The trail was “broken” and others would find it easier to navigate.

Perhaps, in being conscious of what is going on around us, we can find ways to navigate changing conditions.  Perhaps, we can share that information with other people.  Perhaps, we can take turns, like Canada Geese do, in breaking trail, making the trip easier for those following.

That is the story that the land shared with me.  I will see how it applies to life when I am not in the woods.  I will let the story work inside of me and change me and it will create new stories.