There Is Something About Traversing A Frozen Lake --by Bo Sirant, 2012 There is something about traversing a frozen lake, especially

in early March when the midday temperatures rise above freezing the hazy sun at you back the windblown driven snow nipping at your face the whooshing wind the clip clop of snowshoes the rasp and crunch of crusty snow and grate of claws on the crisp refrozen slush as you march along a curvy snowmobile trail thighs burning feeling weary You have set out to explore an inlet all the way to the frozen marsh where the river enters it where a beaver lodge stands near the delta headed toward a tiny island where you will seek shelter in the cedars and hemlock find secure rock under your feet build and set a fire so you can get the practice reward yourself with steaming hot tea drunk from a spent tuna can smudge yourself with cedar smoke experience the solitude and view the lofty ridges and steep cliffs with their secret pictographs to the east

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where a game trail winds along the rim through the old pines hemlocks and birches a trail you intend to pick up and hike for the first time on a roundabout way home You are reassured that somewhere in the far hills under the deep drifts in secluded dens bear cubs are being born and you amuse yourself with the thought that some are already sucking on their mother’s teats You meditate on the sounds of the wind rushing through the bower and distant gray jays’ squawks ravens’ gurgling croaks And woodpeckers’ knocks And think on Donne’s devotion that though No Man is an Island Everyman wants one --his own Treasure Island where he may be a Crusoe if only for an hour Such is an island’s allure such is it’s drawing power And you have yours But it is getting on You have drunk the tea burned the sacred wood and must go while the going’s good

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