Standing in the Middle of a Lake

Having courage does not mean we are unafraid.  –Maya Angelou

Fear has been my worst friend most of my life—my friend because there has rarely been a day when it hasn’t been by my side—and worst because friends are supposed to be fun, encouraging, and loving, and fear is none of those.  We know each other well, inevitable after so many decades together, but it still surprises me at times when fear takes the bit and bolts at a dead run.  I’m learning how to gather the reins, loosen the bit from its teeth, and get control again.

One of the things I’m afraid of is deep water.  I can swim enough to get from point A to point B if they aren’t very far apart, if one has no judgement on my ‘technique,’ and oh, if I can just about touch bottom.  When canoeing I prefer to stay close to the shore, and my temporary best friend is the aptly named life jacket.  Larger boats are more enjoyable—if I don’t think about how deep the water is below us.  The only thing worse than deep water in the summer is the thought of falling through the ice in the middle of a lake—uncommon, but not unheard of in Minnesota.  My mind had come up with this blog post title a number of weeks ago, so I knew I couldn’t write about it unless I did it.  Okay.  So here I am, standing in the middle of a lake…

Chris and I traveled to Eden Lake, a 263 acre oval-shaped lake to the south of us.  It’s 77 feet deep at the deepest point. (yikes)  The temperature was a chilly twelve degrees, but the sun was bright and the sky a beautiful blue.  We walked out on the lake as I reassured myself that the ice was safe—after all, there were plenty of pick-ups out there.

The ice was mostly snow-covered in interesting patterns crafted by the wind.  It made walking easier.

There were places where the ice was topped with a lacy white frosting that shattered like glass when we stepped on it.

Truck tracks ran in many directions, but one ‘road’ seemed to get the most traffic.

Cracks appeared in the ice, and there was evidence that melting water had seeped up from them during the January thaw but once again were frozen over and slick.

Ice chunks lifted from holes cut for spearing fish made it look like a moonscape.

Cedar branches marked the holes that had been cut, warning drivers to stay clear.

Ice houses were scattered in three different areas of the lake…

with a little village of them at the far end of the lake, at the end of the ice road.

I peered down through the ice where it was clear, unable to ascertain the thickness.  I wondered about the large cracks, like center-lines down a highway.  The ice landscape was so unfamiliar to me, though the fishermen must know how to ‘read’ it after years of experience.  Probably only the foolish end up falling through the ice—maybe the ones with no fear.

As I was leaving the lake, I stopped to ask a man how deep the ice was—he had just drilled some new holes and said the ice was about sixteen inches thick, more than enough for a pick-up truck to drive on according to the MN Department of Natural Resources.  How much is recommended for safe activities on foot?  Four inches!  Though the DNR clearly states that ice is never 100% safe.  Fear is not something I need to get rid of completely—it serves a purpose in keeping me safe in many situations.  And like walking on ice, I am never 100% safe.  But I really had nothing to fear standing in the middle of Eden Lake on that day.  John Berryman, a poet who lived and died a tragic life, wrote, “We must travel in the direction of our fear.”  Maybe my mind, by coming up with a title, was urging me towards my fear.  Maybe the center-line cracks illustrate that the highway of life has perils to be navigated.  We just have to make certain that fear does not completely envelop us, like it did poor John Berryman.  Maybe it’s the village at the end of the road that will dissipate the fear and bring us back to safety.  Maybe fear is not my worst friend, after all.

Thanks to Sterling for answers to my ice questions.