Lake Thunder
Did you hear that? Boom. Crack. Deep, earth-lung bass tones that ripple beneath the mysterious surface that supports your frozen feet. Miles of frosty peace, and an eternity of snow capped pine shores.
We set out on the lake with our hammers and boards and tarps and whiskey. Snow squeaking with every step. Crunch. Crunch. No power tools - only manual instruments that forced us to ice-burn our hands from time to time in the unadulterated, howling January north wind. We laughed like kings and our faces stung. Boyishness never leaves a man, I thought.
Bit by bit, my two best friends in the universe and myself pulled plywood and two-bys and cut trees together and constructed a ramshackle ice station. With tarps for walls and no ceiling, we sat by an emptied out and re-jigged propane tank that became our fireplace, and the icy mistress lessened her mad screams as we admired an overcast January sky. It must have looked like a pitiful, crude
shanty, but it was our fortress away from the world.
Winter cannot be hidden from. Eventually, we all must face it.
