Hopping from one seasonal adventure to another with spring’s return
It was late April of 1975 and I was anxiously waiting for the ice to go out on the lake. I was anticipating the opportunity to drop a bobber off the Foster’s dock and enjoy my first real open water fishing of the season.
I decided to make my way through the woods to the lake to check on the ice situation.
It would have been easier for me to take a more direct path on the road, but I found it to be more fun and challenging to hike in the woods.
Scraps of snow were scattered throughout the forest floor and I tested myself by traveling strictly on top of them.
I used a five-foot-long stick to help vault myself from the patches placed too far apart for me to hop only by the power of my Converse sneakers.
I found a good-sized zigzagging scrap of snow to start with that led me pretty far into the woods.
I crunched along seeking other snowy remains that appeared like small white islands amidst the sea of forest floor.
Every so often I was faced with a directional decision and had to choose which path would most efficiently lead me to my destination without having to cheat and set a foot on dry land.
By the time I made it to the lake my toes were numb and my socks were wet and creeping down over my ankles.
The ice held a firm grip on half of the lake but there was open water about 50 yards along the shore.
I wished that the lake would thaw in scraps, much like the snow did in the woods.
I imagined how fun it would be cross the lake by hopping from one iceberg to another.
I dipped my hand into the cold, dark water and gave it a stir. I quickly put my fingers in my mouth and tried to warm them up.
I searched for small rocks along the shore and tossed them out on the ice as markers for my next day’s trip.
The rocks I had tossed two days earlier were gone now.
I knew that on my next trip I would be able to bring along my fishing pole, though I would have some difficulty finding sufficient snow to step upon through the woods.
The sun was shining and my face was hit by mild warm breezes that I had not felt since the previous October.
On my way home I hopped on the last remnants of snow.
My thoughts turned to worm hunting and where I might find some hiding this early in the season.
Mitch Lee is an Adirondack illustrator & storyteller, living in his boyhood town of Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com
