Winter cottage adventure

This past weekend, I learned a new appreciation for dry socks.

Jeff and I usually like visiting the cottage during the winter at least once before ice-out. It's a much different kind of visit than during the summer. The lake is frozen, so obviously there's no water activities, and you have to bundle up to do anything outdoors. The main appeal to me, however, is seeing a different aspect of the cottage, the white quiet and desolation of the frozen lake. I also love the walk across the ice. These year's visit was more challenging than others, but no less satisfying.



This time, Jeff and I went up with his mom, brother, two nieces and one nephew. Going up during the winter with young children is a different experience than going with just adults, of course, with its own set of challenges but also the bonus of seeing everything with a fresh perspective and enthusiasm.

The trek across the lake this past weekend was the toughest we've ever done up at the cottage. What normally takes about 10 minutes by boat and 40 minutes on foot took nearly two hours. It looked like good conditions at first: the ice was hard and smooth, clear blue sky above.

Partway across, however, the ice started turning slushy. Not slushy the way you see obvious slush on the roads sometimes, but with a layer of snow/ice on top. You'd put your foot down and take a step, then sometimes the top layer would hold, sometimes your foot would go through and into the thick slush until it hit the next layer of ice. Traditional wooden snowshoes would not have helped, though Ginny's new snowshoes did (a Christmas gift from Jeff and me) for part of the trek:



We held a pow-wow about 1/4 way across to see if it was worth continuing. The kids were very keen on going to the cottage (it would be the first winter visit for the two younger ones), so we decided to make it a day trip only instead of overnight, coming back before we began to lose the light. The kids walked when they could, were pulled in sleds when they couldn't.

While we made the tough walk across, we were all well aware that the walk back in a few hours would be even more difficult because the snow and ice would have softened up even more under the afternoon sun. Sometimes the slush went up nearly to my knee with each step. Lifting my foot up was like trying to step out of quicksand, and I could hear a watery suction sound each time I pulled my foot out of the thick slush. Jeff compared the experience to walking for two hours in wet cement.

When we finally reached the cottage, our socks and boots were all soaked. Here's a photo of my brother-in-law pouring water out of his boots:



Despite the difficulty of the walk and the dampness of our gear, we were all in good spirits. It was an adventure, after all, and we knew we'd be warm and dry by the end of the day. I've found that in this kind of situation, the quality of experience depends heavily on the individuals involved. If even one person is the type who lets their discomfort get the better of him or her, it can drastically alter the mood of the group.

Sure, it's tempting to complain that your feet are wet and cold...but what's the point? EVERYONE'S feet are wet and cold. Instead, we had fun raiding my dad-in-law's cottage for dry socks and having a picnic out by a crackling fire. The electricity was working (though the phones weren't), so the kids warmed up in the sauna.



When it was time to leave, we put our feet back into our cold, wet boots again (ugh!) and headed back across. It was definitely slushier this time around. Here's my brother-in-law after ferrying one of the kids over an especially slushy area, going back for another:



His boots were filled with icy water by this point, and this was only 5 minutes into the trek back across the lake.

In the following photo (taken about 20 minutes after the previous one), note how deep Jeff and Case are in the snow/slush compared to Ginny, who is using her aluminum snowshoes here:



Another reason the trek back was tougher was because we were already pretty tired.

My method for getting across was as follows:

1. Count with each step I took.

2. When I got to 50, take a short break. Admire the view, catch my breath, mentally prepare for the next set, convince myself I could do it.

3. Go to #1 and repeat.

Partway across I had to reduce the number of steps to 45 before I needed a break, a point where I felt I didn't have the energy for even one more step. That got reduced to 40. So on until I could only go about 10 steps at a time. It felt like my entire world had been reduced to taking a careful step, putting weight down, adjusting my balance depending on whether my foot went through the ice or not, yank the other foot out from the suction of the previous step, moving it forward for the next as well as pulling the sled of supplies a few inches forward.

I found that much of it was a mental game, convincing yourself you COULD take another step even if your body told you it couldn't. That's why the complete focus on counting helped me; it distracted me from everything else.

Fortunately by the point I was down to taking only a few steps a time, we were in the bay near the parking lot, and my brother-in-law (my hero! :-)) came back after dumping his stuff to help me with mine. By this point, I could feel the water sloshing inside my boots.

When we reached the vans, we all got changed into dry gear (YAY FOR DRY SOCKS!) and headed back to the hotel. The kids were tired but delighted in the adventure of it all. We ordered room service and crashed early; we slept about 11 hours straight that night. :-)



By now, some of you are probably shaking your heads and thinking, Why on earth would anyone voluntarily go through this?

I've talked about this before but it applies here as well: I've found that sometimes it's GOOD to be uncomfortable. It helps give me a different perspective, an appreciation of things I often take for granted. I become more aware of my senses, everything seems sharper, more vibrant. I'm less likely to whine and complain about little things that don't ultimately matter.

I also think it's good to be pushed physically to one's limits from time to time. Sure, it reminds me of my weaknesses as well (and sometimes I have to find the courage to admit that I simply can't do something) but it can also show me strengths and endurance I didn't know I had ... and that feeling is worth its weight in gold.

Near the end of the trek back, I remember standing in the foot-deep icy slush, aware of how tired the muscles in my legs felt, the soreness in the small of my back, the cold water sloshing around in my boots.

As I gazed out across the sunlit white expanse of ice beneath that unbelieveably blue sky, I felt stupidly, incredibly happy, and in that moment I realized there was nowhere else in the world I'd rather be.

But hoo boy, am I going to be sore tomorrow...

:-)



Various choices of refreshment after our adventure. :-)

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