The Foehn

Dave and I sat here this morning drinking our coffee and tea, enjoying the striking view of the frozen lake in front of us. It looks like a great expanse of frozen tundra. It almost seems like a herd of caribou might gallop past us. There is the crunching of ice as though under the hoofs of many reindeer. We squint into the glare of the morning sun and crane our necks to see.

A Chevy rolls past us on the ice.

Our imagined caribou herd disappears and we resume sipping as the ice fishermen drag their sleds full of gear across the slippery surface and unfold their hammock chairs to settle in for a long day.

Despite the constantly increasing number of bob houses that have assembled like a Vietnamese village in our “front yard”, our hopes are high that spring is near. Though the Vernal Equinox is still two weeks away and the sun does not warm the air past thirty degrees on a cloudless day, there are signs that spring is returning.

One morning last week, we poked our noses outside and were pleasantly surprised by a gentle caress of warm air. Standing on the porch barefoot in our pajamas, we grinned and watched as the roof dripped in rivulets onto the snow below. A sudden warm wind whipped around the house and sent the dripping water spraying into our faces. The Foehn had arrived.

When we reach the end of January we are disappointed that it is quickly followed by a cold and gray February. We find ourselves irritated and anxious as the sun is still low and the daylight is brief. We have quick tempers and pick arguments over small things. It is said that before the Foehn blows, ill feelings explode. In wintertime, if you are feeling edgy, sulky, or morose, you can be sure that the Foehn is near.

With the warm wind came rain. We woke in the middle of the night to the sound of rain on our roof for the first time in five months. The warm sun of the day had miraculously melted all of the snow on the roof, and we snuggled into our pillows to the gentle pitter-patter of spring on the eves.

The dramatic change in the environment is short lived. The next day the temperature plummeted back down to twenty degrees. We continue to smile contentedly knowing that spring has not forgotten about us. The stream next to our house has begun to run again under the snow and we listen to it burbling. Though there will undoubtedly be more snowstorms, and the thick ice on the lake will likely remain through March and some of April, rest assured that the proverbial back of winter has been broken.

After all of the rain that had blown in, the ice (that had been muffled by almost two feet of snow) has a new glossy surface. Now, instead of slogging through knee-high powder to cross the lake, we can put ice cleats on our boots and crunch across the top to visit my parents on the other side. Dave explored an abandoned fishing hole in front of our house and discovered nearly twenty inches of solid ice. The rain had soaked through the snow and it had all frozen solid into a glacier-like expanse. In some places, the ice-cover on the lake is up to three feet thick. Though the terrain is too rough for ice-skating, it can now support over 25 tons of weight. Huge pick-up trucks roll past us on the ice and park confidently in the middle of the lake. Some of the fishermen grill hamburgers and sausage on gigantic hibachis off the tongues of their trucks. The scents of this temporary fishing village waft up to us and we feel like bourgeois on the hill overlooking a small bustling town of peasants. We put on the lofty airs of shack-dwellers.

Aside from the industrious peasants below us, the new ice has more surprises. When the sun slips behind the trees at the end of the day, the temperature falls quickly. With this sudden drop, the ice expands and shifts. Fault lines develop and the massive sheets shift and grind. At night we listen to the great booms and shudders as the glacier strains and pushes against itself. From a distance, it is the sound of a huge stomach rumbling that shakes our house and rattles the teacups. When you stand on the ice, the tectonic shifts release a concussion under your feet spiking your adrenaline and sending you hopping into the air.

When I lived on the lake as a kid, our dog Jupiter would spend the long winter days pacing back and forth across the ice with his head down and his furry ears perked. When a particularly loud report shook the ice, he would leap into the air with all four feet. When his feet came back down, he would cock his ears and resume his hunt, endlessly consumed by his illusive ice prey.

We are comforted knowing that spring is on its way, yet reserved in our celebration. There is still a foot of icy white in the yard and snowy predictions for the week ahead. The freezing air numbs our fingers as we stock our wood rack in preparation for the next storm. The sun is gone by four-thirty in the afternoon, but we hunker in and turn on a lamp thankful for the hour of sunlight we have regained since the dark winter solstice. Tonight, the ice seems to be voicing a futile protest against its imminent demise. Tomorrow the sun will rise just a little bit higher than the day before.