Friday 16 March 2007

Ice and Joyce Just Don’t Mix

I’m here to tell you that because of every tumble, bruise, pulled muscle and fractured knee cap I’ve received since my first lovely Canadian winter, I can confidently say that ice and Joyce just don’t mix. Well, unless the ice is mixing nicely in my cocktail.

Being not-of-Canada-and-ridiculously-cold-icy-weather, I have grown happily into adulthood thinking that ice is good for a few purposes: keeping drinks cold, shaving into frosty snow cones, or skating on. Like, on a rink. A man made rink, with a cool Zamboni and a nice, sturdy floor underneath. When I think of all of you seasoned winter people, well, you just downright scare me sometimes, but I'll get to that.

During my first winter in Canada, Peter and I took a drive over to the Quebec side of the Ottawa River to explore. On the way home, he mentioned an ice-bridge that was somewhere close by that we could use instead of the ferry.

“Ice what?” I couldn’t have heard him correctly. He was speaking in oxymoron, and I try not to speak that language, unless it's to make a point.

“Ice bridge. It’s really cool. We can drive across it to the other side, it’s a shortcut.”

“Ice what?” All I could picture when I heard the words ‘ice’ and ‘bridge’ was us in our car: sliding, slipping, praying and screaming. “The only shortcut an ice bridge is going to give us is an expressway to a cold, watery grave, Mister. No way. Uh-uh.”

"What if it were the only way to get across?" Ever practical Peter - seasoned winter guy. Not gonna work.

"Well, if an ice bridge were the only way to get back home, I guess I'd have to be a Quebec resident until springtime." I could picture myself moving into the
Chateau Montebello for a few months. Trust me, worse things could happen.

Luckily enough for me, he didn’t find that bridge. But, every now and again, when I relay the story to other not-of-Canada-and-ridiculously-cold-icy-weather people, they agree with me with absolute conviction. Ice belongs in your drink or on a rink. Can I get an amen?

Last weekend, Muffin and I were taking in the hot-tub and pool facilities at McCreary’s. The day was gorgeous. The sun was making efficient work of melting the frozen tundra surrounding us. The busy dripping noise from all places, all angles brought about a kind of hope and a real hunger for spring.

Then a snowmobile engine fired to life, interrupting my daydream of spring as it powered out on to the slushy surface of the lake. Eeeek! Insert suspense-thriller music here.

I gasped and pointed, words escaping me (for a change). Muffin laughed at me when she realized what I was pointing at.

The rider throttled high, quickly gliding over the puddles and layers of snow ice and slush. I don’t care how many times I’ve heard there’s still a full week of snowmobiling on the Lanark County waterways. When I look out on the ‘frozen’ lake and see puddles, it’s time to pack it in. Not that you’d get me out there in the first place.

Muffin is always gentle, and told me that I shouldn't worry, they were riding close to the shore line, so they should be just fine.

I pointed at the dot racing across the middle, yes m-i-d-d-l-e- of the rapidly melting ice. All I was thinking was that if they fell in,they were on their own. There was no way I'd run out there on the ice to help. I'd be wicked quick my cell phone though.

Remember that movie, The Dead Zone? They never did find that guy, pounding on the wrong side of the ice after he went through a supposedly ‘frozen’ spot. That’s enough of a lesson for me. Call me a coward. I’ll take the insults while I keep fighting the evil-ice-gravity-force on my own driveway, thankyouverymuch.

I know you snowmobilers know what you’re doing, that you’re being safe. Just know that I’ll be the one chewing my nails as I admire your courage, riding like you were born to fly over the ice while I live my life as the one apparently born to fall on the ice.