Cold, Interrupted

I'm typing with half-frozen fingers so I imagine this post will take me an annoyingly long time to write. I dived into Cold this weekend and spent a good deal more time outside than normal. As a certifiable cold wimp, this is a big step for me.

I ran outside for the first time in ages today. The sun was too pretty and the day windless enough to assume I would not keel over and die. I was correct. No death. But my Madonna-inspired hot pink fingerless gloves really have to go. They may be perfect for blustery fall days, but they do not cut it when it's freezing outside, sunshine or not.

I was fairly excited to run outside partly because I've been dying to test out the running capabilities of these Yak Trak contraptions, weird metal thingies that attach to my running shoes to (supposedly) make running on less-than-clear sidewalks a bit safer. For running purposes, I hate them. For walking, they are awesome, definitely better traction and no slipping around even on that solid, evil kind of ice that peppers the sidewalks around my apartment. But running is a whole other animal. The weird metal things throw the balance of each foot off just enough to make each step feel unstable. While I felt pretty sure I wouldn't slip on any ice, I was less confident that I wouldn't simply lose my balance. So I went for a brisk, long walk after 2 miles of "gonna break my ankle, gonna break my ankle" at a pace that wasn't much faster than a brisk walk anyway. Running outside did make me yearn for spring, for new races, clear sidewalks, sunlight for hours after work so I can drive to Calhoun and do 6 miles before dinner. I do miss sunlight.

But I feel like I've had a healthy dose of it this weekend, happily. I spent yesterday afternoon ice fishing with my dad. I've been wanting to go ever since I moved up here but there is something about weekends and timing and planning and parents and grown children that I think just presents an obstacle. But, luckily, this weekend I had time, my Dad had time, the weather was good, the ice was thick...the stars were aligned.

We stopped by Gander Mtn for minnows and mealwormy things (wax worms?) and then drove out onto Bryant Lake (driving out "onto" a lake still feels bizarre to me). Dad drilled the hole, we pitched the little hut, and he broke out "cute" (my word) ice fishing poles. Dad also brought some chicken breasts and canned biscuits to testdrive on his portable propane grill, which proved to be a yummy lunch on the ice, burnt pieces notwithstanding. Dad caught two fish, neither worth keeping, and I practiced my technique of bobbing the pole up and down while sipping coffee and eating a biscuit. True talent.

The cold up here is easier to take with company. And I think for an Outsider, it's nice when that company is of the not-from-here variety. My dad loves Minnesota, loves the cold weather activities, the snow, the novelty of driving across lakes, of hammering a nail with a frozen banana. I'm not entirely impressed by these things, but I enjoy them more in his company. Tucked into an ice fishing hut on the middle of a lake, it's nice to be next to someone who understands the "holy crap, can you believe we're in a little house with a heater going on top of a lake and we drilled a hole into a foot of ice to catch fish with tiny little poles?!" feeling that just kind of permeates many of my winter experiences here.

A shared adventure interrupts the cold. Breaks the chill. Warms the soul.

Walking on Water

I snowshoed for the first time this weekend, borrowing my mother's pair and traipsing down a hill, through a patch of trees, and across Staring Lake. I still can't accept this walking on water business. It seems unnatural to me, no matter how thick the ice appears, no matter how many people I see skiing across the surface, and (eventually) no matter how many trucks I see parked where I once rode in a boat. But I walked, trailing a taller, heavier-than-me fellow who I figured would fall through before me and give me some warning as to the precariousness of my situation.

Not sure if that makes me a survival-minded woman or a bad girlfriend. Perhaps a smidge of both.

As much as I like to deny any affection for my Northern home short of respect for its excellent summers, I will admit that there are aspects of winter that are lovely. The lack of sunlight, I think, makes the rare sunny afternoon a treasure, even at 3 degrees. The white of snow-laden lakes, the white caught in tree limbs yet to be shaken, the snow with ridges, like waves, where you can see the fingerprints of windy evenings; I will concede a beauty here that would not exist in my prior homes.

I have wondered lately if I could stay here longer than I originally intended. If I can tuck more sunny, snowshoeing afternoons into this 6-month doldrum they call winter, I would say it is a stronger possibility than I have maintained in the past. Louisiana still feels like a place I'd like to call home again. And Arkansas, too, sometimes. And other warm, Southern places. But perhaps that's just blood calling, and habits of homesickness. Not a habit I plan to break, but one I could set aside for awhile longer, perhaps allow myself to enjoy this Northern space and its bright, cold, quasi-miraculous, walk-on-water afternoons.