Freedom in the time of self-isolation
Everyone needs a little time alone somewhere, in a place that they feel safe and a connection with.
Life has ground to a halt for many of us. Our workplaces are closed, we’ve been told to stay indoors and away from people until the spectre of COVID-19 starts to fade away.
This is one of the rare occasions I am glad to be stuck near home. Living in a little town on the edge of the Boreal Forest offers up many opportunities to go explore the wilderness that is just outside my door.
I grew up in the town, and until recently thought I knew every square inch of the woods, fields, swamps and lakes I’ve visited countless times. A sunny and warm day gave me the urge to go out and take a walk on a familiar path to what we call around here Long Lake, just on the other side of the rim of the granite hills that border the town.
And being me, packed up my camera in the event something interesting crossed my bath.
Being warm can be deceptive. The snow may be melting, but it is still base layer weather. I still bundle up to protect from the cold. Now is not the time to get sick.
I also bring a few provisions, just in case. It may be a short distance, but even a tiny emergency is magnified in the woods, in snow, in the cold. Even on familiar ground. To make it fun, I know by the time I arrive at my destination it will be time for tea, so a travel mug of hot English Breakfast is packed up with the lenses.
I head out onto the snowmobile trail, which is surprisingly busy. I believed that the warm weather and self-isolation would’ve kept more people indoors. I’m actually pleased to see so many other equally restless people seeking a little solace.
I don’t need to go far when I come across a sight we only get for a few weeks every year. In a little beaver swamp, tucked away in the rocky corner where a stream from the lake trickles down into the pond is a forest of icicles creeping off the rocks. In the silence I can hear the stream gently trickling and the water dripping off of the rocks, creating long, white fingers reaching down to the snow below. I follow the footsteps of someone who came before me, so I can find the safest path across the ice. I know this pond is shallow, but falling through and being left cold, wet and miserable isn’t my idea of a fun excursion.
The warmth also has opened up the pond, where a patch of open water is acting like a mirror, reflecting the icy cliffs just behind it.
It’s surreal. This little corner of the world I thought I knew so well is transforming before me.
I’m reminded of the ice caves of Yellowknife, which form at this time of year from similar circumstances, forming thick walls of ice people can walk behind. People make the trek across Back Bay to come explore those temporary wonders.
I take a few pictures, but the urge to get to the top of the hill in time for tea keep me going forward.
The snow on the trail is soft, despite being packed down from snowmobile traffic. The day’s heat is taking its toll on the trails. What is usually an easy walk up the hill is a struggle getting through the mashed-potato-texture of the snow.
And with any walk, I have to look up to see what is coming towards me. This time, though, the roar of the snowmobile engines gives enough of an early warning I can get out of the way.
Soon I am at the top of the hill, looking at the still frozen lake and rocky hills still under a thick snow blanket. I make my way down to my favourite spot on the edge of the hill for a tea break nestled in the snow.
For the first time in a long time I feel at peace. The silence, the view, the transitional time of the season. For a moment all is right in the world. A hot mug of tea and a refreshing walk to gather one’s thoughts can do wonders.
I hear rushing water below me. There is a footpath halfway down the hill to the source of the stream. I think it looks stable enough to traverse to see how hard the little waterfall is running.
About 100 feet in, and several sudden sinkings later, I give up on the prospect of looking at it this time around. But all is not in vain. Stray oak leaves have gathered on the foot path. It makes for a good photo of a line of brown-red leaves on white snow.
On the way down, I think it would be a good time to re-visit the ice caves. Once I get back to the beaver swamp I follow the footsteps again, this time all the way into the cove. Footprints show it is stable enough to walk in and right under one of the icy shrouds. There it glistens and weeps in the late afternoon sun, almost resembling wings stretched out over the rock walls. I kneel in the wet snow, to take a few photos, hoping at least one of them works out before I’m too cold and wet to stay.
I sit there for a moment, taking in the silence, looking around for another angle, the light to change, any sign of an animal hiding in the woods.
Silence, save for the wind and water.
Peace, even for a few minutes, can be recharging. In a few minutes I am back in civilization, walking down the street and heading home.
The joy of life so close to wilderness.