Trares
“It’s like we’re going on a polar expedition!”
Anthony couldn’t contain his excitement as he inched down the snowy hillside towards the creek below. Each step in his heavy winter boots was tentative as he reached out to nearby branches, hoping not to fall.
We were back in northwestern Ohio last weekend for a visit with my family. My wife always has a yearly work conference over a weekend in the winter, leaving Anthony and me on our own. For the past few years, I’ve taken advantage of a wide-open weekend to visit my hometown to see my mom, siblings and some friends, if it works out. As opposed to the over-packed schedules and commitments of the holidays, this is a chance to relax and spend some quality time together.
Since our voyage tends to fall in the winter, we’re always hopeful for the potential of some cold-weather activities. I’ll throw a sled in the car, just in case. Maybe we could even have a snowball fight.
And usually, we’re mildly disappointed by mild January temperatures.
Not this year. Just like it had in central Indiana, an icy Arctic freeze had settled over the region. Solidified mounds of plowed-up snow was piled high along driveways and parking lots. Snowmen populated front yards as we drove into town.
So excitement levels were up. They only grew when, after the requisite hugs and small-talk, my mom dropped a winter-weather bomb on us: The creek was frozen.
Her house, where I spent almost my entire youth and where I’ve returned every year as adult, had a modest backyard bordered on the north by a wooded creek. When I was a kid, that small tributary might as well have been my second home.
We tread paths through the underbrush along the banks as playing soldier and other make-believe games. We dragged rocks out of the muck to build bridges so we could explore the opposite banks.
We swung over the water on vines hanging down from the trees; when those unexpectedly broke (sending kids spilling into the foot-deep water), my dad, and neighboring fathers, tied rope swings from sturdy branches. Hours were spent back there.
But few things were better than the cold Ohio winter took over, and the creek froze over.
Suddenly, that watery boundary became a kid-focused highway. My friends and I could cut across the neighborhood on its frozen surface, never having to worry about traffic. We’d play hockey and try out our ice skates. On occasion, we’d fall through a patch of thin ice, soaking our snow pants and sending us sprinting back home to get warm.
But I hadn’t walked out on that ice for decades. My mom said the creek hadn’t even frozen over safely for years.
Still, January’s stretch of extended sub-freezing temperatures had done the job. Kids were playing hockey back there, and she had seen others walking back and forth, she said.
Maybe we need to check it out, I suggested to Anthony.
His enthusiasm was off the charts. He had never been on ice before — I don’t trust any bodies of water around our house to freeze, and we’d never taken him ice skating before. This was something entirely new.
The sun had barely come up on Saturday morning before he was peppering me with questions about when could try the ice. So we bundled up, promised to be careful and set off on the frozen tundra.
Though the ice looked frozen, I was leery about if it was truly solid to support our weight (well, mostly my weight.)
Standing on the edge, I held him back as I tentatively took one step out. Solid. Carefully, I shifted the rest of my weight onto the ice; it didn’t even creak.
At that point, I helped Anthony step out. We slid a little bit on the glassy surface before seeing how far we could walk. I pointed out places were we used to play when I was young. Anthony stomped on the ice shelf along the shore, picking up shards of thick ice and tossing them into the woods.
Coming to a downed tree blocking our patch, he got a little overzealous — rearing his foot back and trying to kick the log. He didn’t quite understand the dynamics of ice, as his other leg slid out from under him and he landed squarely on his rear. Dad concern took over, as I grabbed his coat to hold him up and make sure he was OK. His hysterical laugh told me he was.
We walked for about 45 minutes before we started to get cold. Heading back to the house, Anthony jabbered about all of the things he saw and did.
Who knows if we’ll get that another opportunity to do that again? But at least for one morning, we were Arctic explorers.
Ryan Trares is a senior reporter and columnist for the Daily Journal. Send comments to letters@dailyjournal.net.
