DECEMBER 29, 2019 – Years ago an ice fisherman reportedly went through the ice on White Bear Lake, just north of St. Paul. What was remarkable about the story was: (1) It occurred after a two solid weeks of subzero temperatures; and (2) The guy had just augured a fishing hole through a foot and a half of ice. What a surprise, then, when he stepped back to admire his handiwork and broke through a mere half-inch of ice no more than a yard from the spot where he had labored securely. I was skeptical, but with an authoritative tone, I told the story to my sons—teenagers at the time—to illustrate the danger in walking on thin ice in front of our lake home in northern Wisconsin. However, after my own terrifying experience a while later, the story acquired legs.
A storm had blasted the region for three days straight. First raged snow, then rain and sleet, more snow, followed by high winds and a plunge of temperature into the deep freeze. On the fourth day the storm relented. The sun burst forth, clearing the skies but with little effect on the frozen landscape. I donned my skis and ventured onto the white expanse that is Grindstone Lake in winter. The recent concoction of weather had produced a perfect surface for skating on skis. I followed the shore, and after a half-mile or so, decided it was an auspicious day for a round-the-lake ski tour, an expedition I’d often contemplated but never attempted.
The total circumference of “our” lake is about 17 miles, and if you follow the shoreline closely, you discover many little bays, inlets and corners that aren’t apparent during summer boating farther from shore. I made good time all the way to The Waterfront, a bar-restaurant directly across the lake from our cabin. I stopped there briefly to call my wife, inform her of my plan to “circumnavigate” the lake, and state my progress. It was too early for the lunch crowd, and no barhopping snowmobilers were yet on hand; just the bartender, concentrating hard on his game of pinball, and two wait staff, looking bored as they leaned on the bar and puffed on cigarettes (this was a while ago). Soon I was back out on the ice.
Like a giant invisible hand on my back, the wind pushed me fast along the wooded shoreline. I imagined I was circling Antarctica; the first person to do so on skis, or by any other conveyance, for all I knew. I inverted water and terra firma: the lake would be the continent, and the shoreline would be the ocean. Except for one halfway stop—McMurdo Station, The Waterfront—the feat would be accomplished without human contact or assistance. Always within ten miles of the geologic edge of the white continent, my adventure would be a first in the annals of polar exploration. There would be a feature article in National Geographic, a speaking tour, laurels and riches.
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© 2019 Eric Nilsson
