Backwoods Blog

ICE OUT

The Isolation Blues;

reflections during covid-19

Last Thursday night I stepped outside by the back of our shed at the farmhouse (I instantly knew what had happened) and I could hear the loud roar of rushing water in the darkness toward the river – ice out! This is a much anticipated annual event in the north woods and Mainers usually mark it on the calendar to compare from year to year soon to be followed by canoe runs and anglers hitting the water. This year the ice went out without fanfare; there were no jams, pile-ups and the breakup happened fast. The ice wasn’t as thick as usual and when the temps hit 65 for a couple of days in late March that’s all it took for a quick exit downstream. The next morning at daylight I headed down to the river to evaluate the situation and to stand on the river bank and experience the raw power of nature in Spring. The pounding of water literally shakes the air and the ground.  Our property is located on the oxbow of the north branch and the waters making the fast and wide turn have stripped the banks clean as it accelerates; the velocity of ice speeding over the ledges in reckless fashion as it careens its way towards Canada…

Here is a poem that chronicles several “ice-out” years at our place in the north woods. Yay everyone, Spring is here!

Ice Out


the river is rushing by
a strong spring current
flushing the north woods
of its winter build-up 
of snow
ice
deer shit
and broken branches

this river tundra
which has held its own
for so long during
the lengthy winter months
as a transportation corridor 
for the deer herd
coyote
ski-doo
and occasional
back country skier
now feels the undercurrent
beneath it as spring overtakes
its reluctant bulk
and now immanent exit downstream

I look and a duck floats by
in wild fashion
riding the waves
quacking as he goes

Soon the canoers will follow suit on
sunny week-ends
with their plastic coolers
and six-packs of
aluminum beverage
and excited conversations
of their annual spring run
from Harvey Siding
to Russell Rock
hoping not to capsize
too often or too long

One year I remember sitting on the ice slabs alongside 
the riverbank watching the ice chunks go by, when I looked 
to my left and about fifteen feet away a beaver was sitting 
doing the same thing as me. He looked at me, I looked at 
him, and we both looked back at the river; calmly,reflectively, 
knowing to the depths of our being it was not safe to be 
out there.

this year the ice was jammed for weeks at this spot
driving slabs on top and in-between each other
jagged edge to the sky
grinding bark off trees
standing too close to the action
crushing some in ice age fashion
splintered sticks in a moving ice landscape
the water rushes its way in and around the jags
creating mini waterfalls 
dramatic runs and
temporary water shows
free of charge 
to any onlookers
of the moment



I stand on the rope bridge
 
 rushing water
 roar of nature
 movement of spirit

drinking a hot cup of camp brew coffee
thinking of an old Grateful Dead song

easy wind
the river keeps on talking
but you never hear a word it says…
the river keeps on talking
the river keep on talking


                April 18, 1998

Still in the woods, 

Dave

March 30, 2021