I had found an old slender Beaver stick protruding from the ice in the area where Fosters Creek flowed out to Limekiln Lake. My dog Mutt hovered around me as I tried to pry it from its frozen grip.
She appeared to be helpful, but I knew her secret plan was to somehow get my feet wet in the chilly waters that flowed under the thin layers of crusty ice.
Once I had the stick in hand I poked it around on the ice. I watched the crusted edges flake off and wash towards the ice pack just 12 feet away.
I found a single sheet of ice, poked it with about 30 holes, and viewed the water as it cascaded below the surface.
Now that it was the end of March the days were getting longer and the air was filled with the scent of the warming woods.
These sun-filled afternoons finally released the fragrant pine and spruce smells that had laid there frozen for the past four months.
I could not help but stick the toe of my boot onto this shelf of ice to test its toughness.
Even though I wasn’t surprised to break through the surface, it was still a challenge to keep my balance and retreat.
Mutt had found a nice-sized stick of her own to chew on and settled down in a sunny spot.
I continued to poke at the creek ice until most of the thin areas were used up and floated out to sea.
I gathered some small hemlock cones that were scattered atop the snow and dropped them, two at a time, in the creek.
I watched them careen around rocks and mini waterfalls rushing till they slowly met in the open water of the lake.
I stopped for a bit just to listen to the gurgling of Fosters Creek. It was a gentle sound that was interrupted every so often by the thudded rumble of the lake’s shifting ice.
I took up my trophy Beaver stick and followed the creek upstream, poking holes in any found ice and balancing myself the best I could on the slippery, well-rounded Adirondack rocks.
Mutt was soon at my heels, trying to keep her feet from getting wet and doing her best to keep mine from staying dry.
We traveled a while until the creek flowed into a particularly swampy section of woods. There were so many spring holes that it was like wandering into a mine field.
There did not appear to be a clear path for us to move forward without getting wet, but we continued on just the same.
We placed our feet on the ground as gently as possible and forged our way through as the March sun warmed our faces.
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Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com