Angels and Heroes

A fisherman fell through the ice on Beaver Lake this past week. We would have never even known—and the man who is alive to tell the tale would not have been—if it hadn’t been for our fisherman friend Bob, who frequently fishes from the dock a few doors down from us, always accompanied by his sweet dog, May. In the winter, Bob fishes on the ice away from the dock—auguring holes in different places around the small fire he makes in a barrel to keep himself warm. Now, as the ice thins, though, he is back on the dock. Some days the dock is surrounded by water; other days he punches a hole through the thin ice that has reformed over night. This time of year, just as the ice is coming off the lake, is reputed to be a time of great fishing. We wouldn’t know; my Bob is a terrible fisherman. (Don’t worry, this last statement has been approved by Bob).

That morning, Bob and May had driven in and gotten everything set up to fish. Fisherman Bob later said he looked up and saw someone walking out across the ice from the public access across the lake. Just as he was thinking, “Well, that’s a bad idea,” the guy vanished—just disappeared. Everything was silent. Bob thought, “Did I really see that?”—and the guy resurfaced, blowing out air like a seal. He yelled once, and then went back under. Then Bob watched as the guy tried to pull himself out—the ice breaking under him each time he tried to pull his body onto it. Bob called 9-1-1, and then began yelling to the guy—to let him know someone was here (often there isn’t) and that help was on its way.

It was those yells that my Bob heard. He was out in the yard burning piles of brush. He knew Bob and May had driven in, and he thought Bob was in trouble. He jumped on his four-wheeler and drove down to see how he could help. He found Bob and May a few docks down from where they usually fished, pulling out a neighbor’s rowboat to see if there was any way it might break through the ice to reach this guy. It wouldn’t. After a hurried exchange, my Bob raced back to the house, grabbed a couple of extension ladders, a throw bag, his climbing ropes and ice axes, threw them into the truck and tore out the driveway to get to the other side of the lake, knowing there wasn’t much time.

Hypothermia comes on quickly in water this cold—there is no doubt that this guy would be in late stages almost immediately. As Bob drove around the lake, he formulated a plan. He would tie the climbing ropes to the hook on the end of his truck winch, which, with all of them unspooled, he thought might reach the middle of the lake where the guy had fallen through. Bob would tie the two ladders together, lay down on one of them to spread his body weight over a much larger surface area, and use the ice axes to maneuver himself out to where the guy had fallen in, pulling the winch line and climbing rope out behind him. When he got as close as he could, he would move himself onto the ladder in back, and move the front ladder as close as possible to the hole the guy had fallen through. He would toss the throw bag to the guy, hoping he would have enough strength and where-with-all left to be able to wrap it around himself. Then Bob would pull the guy onto the ladder. By then, he hoped, help would be there, and someone would turn on the truck winch to pull them back onto the shore.

After Bob left the driveway, I heard the sound of helicopter rotors coming near. “Thank goodness,” I thought. Bob won’t have to try a rescue. I had no idea what his plan was at that point, I just know Bob. He would do everything possible to keep this guy from drowning. I just hoped he would also concentrate on keeping himself safe. With the arrival of the helicopter, even though I wondered where on earth they would find a landing spot, I knew he wouldn’t be trying to go this alone.

I went down to our dock to see what I could. As I watched, I was relieved to see a dark shape move across the ice very slowly, as if crawling. I knew at that point that the guy had gotten himself out of the water. I thought he was crawling toward his fishing buddies and their sled, but it turned out he had been fishing alone. The people I saw were the rescue crew. They wore dry suits, and one guy had actually jumped into the hole. It took three other rescuers to pull the two of them out. They inched along the ice until they reached the rescue sled, which is on inflatable buoys—like a boat underneath the sled. They got the guy onto the sled and pulled the sled to shore. Bob was there by this time, saw that not only the helicopter but an ambulance was already there, and watched as they stood the guy up, stripped off his wet clothes, and wrapped him in a thermal blanket. Then they loaded him onto the helicopter, which had managed to land in the tight confines of the parking area at the public access, and they lifted off. It was over, and we were amazed and relieved to know that although he wasn’t communicating, after twenty minutes in the water, this man could stand by himself. We felt sure that he would be fine.

And he was. The next day’s paper, while they didn’t identify the person, said he had been treated and released that same day. Again, we breathed a sigh of relief and went back to our lives, a little shaken, but amazed at the chain of events that allowed this man to live. If Bob and May hadn’t been out fishing that day, this man would have just vanished without a trace.

Instead, he is on the phone with Bob. We got home from our walk today, and my phone was beeping its “I have a message” song. I listened, tears coming to my eyes to hear a woman introduce herself as the wife of the man who had been out fishing that day. A lifetime resident of Whitefish, she knew someone who knew the secretary at my school, who also grew up in Whitefish, and they put the pieces together to get my phone number. The message, though, was for Bob. Her voice cracked as she said that she just wanted to talk with him—to thank him—for hearing her husband’s calls. As Bob began to tell her the story, her husband, too, got on the phone. He shared what he could remember—and his feeling of terror for the first six or seven minutes when he thought he was alone. Then he heard Bob’s four-wheeler, but began to lose hope again in realizing that it was on the other side of the lake and that his cries could never be heard over the noise of the machine. Then he heard it drive away. Shortly after, he heard the sound of a helicopter. He said he was never so glad to hear those rotors. He began to relax as he knew then he would be okay.

Bob gave the couple the name and phone number of fisherman Bob—the real reason this man was alive today—and they said they would certainly call him as well. And then the guy said, sheepishly, how embarrassed he was to have done something so foolish. “Well let me tell you,” Bob began, “I took a ride in that same helicopter not too long ago…”--and briefly told him the story. It turns out, they were both rescued from their foolishness by the same angel. As the helicopter crew was at work, Bob recognized the flight nurse—the same nurse who had flown in to his rescue almost two years ago. He couldn’t talk to her in the heat of the moment, or over the noise of the rotor, but he recognized her from the photos he received after his accident.

So, life will return to normal for everyone involved. It’s strange how things happen. It must have been time for another little reminder that human beings should do what we can for each other, and appreciate our lives each and every day.

*Note: the hyperlink is to the best article I have ever read on hypothermia from a 1997 article in Outside Magazine.


Now that you have read the "official version", here's what really happened....













Final word of caution: ladders may not work as well as you have been led to believe for rescuing people on thin ice.

Ode to Joy: a Multi-genre Reflection

“The opposite of play is not work; it’s depression.” Brian Sutton-Smith

Two of my friends turned 49 this week—a precursor to help me adjust my sails before I, too, reach that landmark later this year. One says she was just not born to ever be 50. It just doesn’t fit her mode of operating in the world. I wonder what 50 looks like in her mind. I’m interested in how people seem to form ideas about what life is like at a given age. Even my grandmother had them. As far back as I can remember, when it was a day where her bones ached or her body refused to cooperate with her mind she would say, “I feel like sixty!” She continued to use this expression well into her nineties.

My other recently birthday’d friend says turning fifty changes nothing. Sometimes my body disagrees. Things change, certainly—things we can’t control. But my friend’s point, I think, is that we do control what happens inside ourselves—we choose our own sense of balance as we play with the knobs that adjust our levels of fight or acceptance with regard to these inevitable changes. There is no right or wrong approach--the settings that bring optimum happiness will be different for each of us, according to our own individual joys and challenges.

I have been lucky. I am in the privileged position of being able to find the joy in my life. I can still run and play and laugh and love. I realize that this is not possible for everyone. Physical ailments exacerbated with age, loss of love, diseases like cancer or depression, so many life circumstances require a focus on mere survival rather than joy.

I grew up in a house where my father went around singing “Accent-tu-ate the positive; elim -in-ate the negative; latch on to the affirmative, and don’t mess with Mr. In-between.” The truth is, most of life is in-between. Some days are better than others. But the life circumstances Bob and I have built for ourselves, along with the occasional fear and sorrow, brings me a great deal of joy.

The other day, Bob said, “You know, I think this relationship of ours is relatively rare. After all these years, we can still make each other laugh.” It’s true. It’s an odd day where we don’t enjoy a belly laugh together. Those usually come during play times—walking with the dogs (and cats), dancing around the kitchen as we make dinner, laughing about some ridiculous circumstance of the day or something that one of my students said. Being with Bob brings me joy.

We have a network of friends, too, who still know how to play. My dad once noticed and found it remarkable that none of the couples in our closest circle of friends have children. I know in many ways having children around keeps you young. Ours would be grown by now anyway. The strange thing is that not having children also helps keep us young. In our minds, we are still the children. Our role has never switched to that of parent. We still know how to play. I smile at the thought of six of us, filling half a row in a movie theater a few years ago, waiting to see Toy Story. We kayak and have water fights. We build campfires and make s’mores and tell stories. Of course, we don’t do these things nearly often enough. We agree that our lives are ridiculously busy with the demands of work and trying to survive the high cost of living in the Flathead Valley. Each time we gather, we vow to see each other more often. We remind each other to play. Our friendships bring me joy.

I find joy in my early mornings of solitude. Each morning I am home, I make a pot of black tea strong enough to drink it “white”—the New Zealand way. I sit in a little rocking chair in a big, triangular window upstairs—looking out as the world as it awakens, giving thanks for a new day. My cat Moxie is often in my lap along with a book or my little computer. Mornings bring me joy.

Morning’s Pond

Aleutia, the younger
Of the two Samoyeds, and I
Are the only two
Awake—

Pressing our noses
Into the corners
Of the Day

While the rest
Of our small
Family
Dreams

Idaho, the athsmatic cat,
snores
Qanik, Aleutia’s older sister, chases yesterday’s rabbits,
toenails clicking on the wood floor in hot pursuit,
and a beloved man, having not yet smelled coffee,
Yawns through his stretch, rolls over, returns to slow, rhythmic breathing

Wrapped in the sounds
Of peace
Their presence
Reassures us,

Infuses us with a courage
That is not our own

As we dip our toes into the morning.

____________________________

No list of joys would be complete without mentioning our pets. Currently, two dirty white Samoyeds and two cats—one black and one orange—share our lives and sometimes our laps. These animals model joy. They are our teachers in play. Their presence in our lives reminds us to lighten up—to each day look forward to things we might take for granted and never should--our walks and our food—and to be grateful for every opportunity to run free in this amazing forest we call home.

Qanik and Aleutia run full tilt, when they want to, and stop instantly—their noses grabbed by a scent that yanks them around. Sometimes it sets them spinning in circles.

We find joy in watching our little cat, Moxie, running as fast as she can to keep up with us when we walk Moxie is a small cat with short legs. Yesterday, we didn’t even realize she had followed us until suddenly, far from the house, halfway through our normal route, there she was, running up behind us, panting. Bob laughed out loud--yelled out to me, “Guess who’s here?” At times when she’s completely worn out or we are walking through mud or water that would cover her legs, she consents to ride on my shoulder for a while. I hoist her up there like a bag of potatoes, so she can see the world behind my back. She’ll balance herself there—sometimes I don’t even have to hold onto her—and watch the world go by, backwards.

Sometimes the animals find joy in ways we wish they wouldn’t. Aleutia, for example, loves skunks. She also loves cats, and we think she probably doesn’t see much difference between the two. And she seems to particularly love that skunky smell. She chased one just last night. Her sister, Qanik, was not far behind— following close enough to protect Aleutia, but far enough away to never really get sprayed. Aleutia is always the one in the line of fire. And as she carries that smell our way, I can almost hear her say, “ahhhh… spring.”


Skunked

Charging down the hill
In response to my impatient third call
Comes Aleutia, the youngest Samoyed--
A white streak,
Eyes squinted,
Mask matted,
Yellow-green droplets
Dotting her head

She flies past--
Splashes into the lake
Odor arriving
Out of sync
Like a sonic boom
Or a worn out
Movie soundtrack.

Sprung from the water,
She lands on her back
In the bare dirt under the trees
Rolling, rolling
Tamarack needles sticking to
Wet white fur
Turning to mud.

Crazed,
She stands and shakes,
Bounces from dirt
To water
And back
Her typical post-bath
Behavior revisited

Relief
In her eyes
That this time,
At least
Her new aroma,
This hard-earned eu de skunk,
Befits a dog
Of the forest.


Aleutia sometimes also finds other non-living play toys. Sometimes she carries them from the outhouse. When she’s trying to inspire a partner to join in her play, she will grab something in her mouth and shake it hard, tempting her potential playmate to try and take it from her. We sometimes find the aftermath of this kind of play--toilet paper strung out over the yard, as if the households I blessed with such an honor in my teenage years had come to return the favor. Once we found the soft toilet seat, meant to make those winter morning visits just a little more comfortable, a little worse for wear, in the middle of the yard. Sometimes we find the shredded remains of catalogs and magazines.

Let’er Rip

Outhouse catalogs
never last long.
Aleutia,
Samoyed shopper,
rips out pages
one by one…
systematically
rejecting
their offers.


So whatever dreaded age is lined up, waiting for you, and whatever your current ability to find joy in the world, we hope these words and these photos are a way of sharing some of ours.

Thin Ice

It is the season of thin ice
On Beaver Lake,
The time of year when I had just begun to believe
That this time around, the lake ice,
solid beneath our feet for months,
Must surely be impenetrable.
How can it possibly surprise me, year after year,
When it begins to melt—just at its edges,
Water lapping quietly at the shore for the first time in many months?

I am fascinated every time this thin edge of water reappears,
As if I had forgotten water had ever been there.
I crouch down, gaze into it,
Watch as shrimp dart
Under the edge of ice and back into the daylight again.
If I watch long enough, I can even trace the slow path of a stonefly larvae
As it drags its finely-masoned cocoon across the mud.

Most nights, the edge ice refreezes,
Re-covering what water was open yesterday afternoon
And will be again,
Hesitant to take that next, bold step
Into a new season.

Three osprey have been circling high above the lake, of late.
I thought I heard their shrill call a few weeks ago.
I caught my breath, not daring to hope.
Too early, I thought, eyeing the nest to which they return
Year after year,
But sure enough, here they are,
To reclaim old territory.

The thin ice on the edge of these mornings
Is not like the snow covered, solid surface of winter.
Light seems to emanate from objects below—
Colored pebbles, pieces of discarded boat covers,
Fishing lures,
Splashes of color missing for a season
Illuminate the delicate, feathery veneer
Just glazing the surface.
In this rare time, I hold two worlds in one view.


Three days ago I walked the still reliable
middle-of-the-lake ice.
Lost in thought, I was startled by a sound,
unheard for a season.
I looked up. Not far from where I stood,
A small piece of water had opened,
A transition zone of cattails and reeds between a small pond and the larger lake.
There, hidden in the dried remains of last year’s vegetation,
Stood two Canadian Geese,
Waiting.

Yesterday I returned to the geese’s claim,
And instead found a pair of mallards splashing there,
Content.
Soon, the lake will open
Negotiations will begin, decisions will be made
About how this place will be shared.
But for now, the early comers relax
Into these days of incremental change
Trusting in the cycles of the earth.

I am not always so trusting.
Impatiently, I try to peer around the next corner,
Attempt to interpret each small change as it occurs,
Believing I might choose where my next foot will fall.

In the cold season,
The ice forms layer by layer,
Capturing a record of each day.
Now it melts much the same way,
Each event of the past season
Slowly revealed:
Pieces of a doe’s tan and white fur scattered in a semi-circle,
Marking the place she was taken down.
Thousands of fishermen’s holes,
Each hidden, as it snowed,
from the next fisherman’s view,
Comic now in their pattern and number, covering
the lake’s surface.

The same is true of our footprints.
We have walked the lake all winter,
My husband, my dogs, and I,
And now our footprints are everywhere,
Covering the lake.

Examining them, I realize
I never know the destination or even the direction
Of the trail I make while I am walking.
It is only on these rare days of transition,
These days of thin ice
When I can step off the path,
Look back from a different vantage point
And trace the patterns created by my footprints.
Only then, do I realize
The true arch of experience
Which has carried me to this place.