Season of Ice

I call this the “Season of Ice.” There is still snow on the ground and we continue to have snow flurries from time to time, but I am most intrigued with the many forms of ice that I see. With temperatures hovering around the freezing mark, the afternoon sun melts the top layer of snow on our road, and then refreezes at nightfall, turning the precipitous switchbacks on the Cedarvale-Kitwanga backroad into a breathtaking toboggan run. Even though the road maintenance company does a pretty good job of keeping the worst parts of the road sanded, there are times when I just hold my breath and hang on for dear life. The Jeep has four-wheel drive and studded snow tires, which of course help, but it is really Bob’s driving skills that get us safely there and back again. Those skills, acquired long ago in Pennsylvania snow country, have proven to be a great asset, and have earned my grateful admiration.

Other forms of ice catch my attention on the long drive from Kitwanga to Terrace. The Skeena River runs along one side of the highway, the wide flow of summer now reduced to a narrow channel between thick irregular sheets of ice that reach out from snowy banks. Ice cakes float in the shallow water like puffs of spun cotton. On the other side of the highway are rock cuts where natural springs and seeping water have created delicate ice stalactites that drip down the stone face, and immense frozen waterfalls tinted aqua blue. Water continues to flow and the wall of ice grows, a frozen tribute to winter.

Finally, there is our own Stronach Creek, the source of our water and power. It tumbles down the mountainside, runs through a culvert beneath the road, then splits into several branches; the strongest flows to the beaver pond, two others toward the cabin. In places it is frozen and so covered with snow, that only the slight sound of running water tells us where the creek flows. The more vigorous open water is rimed in delicate crystalline forms. The other day I decided to put on my snowshoes and hike along the creek to photograph the ice. I was amazed at the diversity I found. There was ice so transparent that it looked like a pane of glass, some with crystals and swirling patterns that resembled Chantilly lace, single rocks sheathed in a cage of frozen water, frost feathers on a naked branch, amorphous blobs of opaque glass, and sparkling waves of beaded diamonds. I shot close-ups, then enlarged and cropped individual sections of the photos to reveal the unique and extraordinary beauty that I found. (The photo above is of ice-encapsulated rocks, and the shallow water that continues to flow over a bed of colorful pebbles.) I now have a different view of ice. It is much more than frozen water lines, and slippery footing. Ice is a work of art.

Tuft of golden moss frozen in ice crystals

... P. L. Morningstar
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