#frozen rivers

The Quiet North - A Tragedy in Needleclan

Walking the ice on the river with my dog in mid February is thrilling. It's snowing but it's warm for this time of year. The winter was cold, but only for weeks at a time before the sun would let loose like champagne from a bottle and I'd be buying my second bottle of washer fluid for my car windows. Every careless step I take makes a cracking sound. I listen for the difference in pitch. The high-pitched cracks add to the suspense in a sweet chime, giving me enough confidence to leave my next footprint. The deep cracks resound in my chest and catch my breath. My dog trots beside me, slipping and sliding as he goes along happy for the outdoors, happy for my silent company. My boots stretch up to my knees and find purchase on the ice far better than nail-tipped paws. He's not cold through his shedding coat, but I shake in mine. We're half as far as I want to go, if we can make it there in time. I think about the two boys who fell in a frozen lake with their dog last week and were rescued with moments to spare. Then I think of my mom whispering to my dad about the two boys who fell in yesterday and never made it out.