Snowshoes: A real-life short story by Glenn Geher

It was a perfect winter day. High pressure had taken over in Maine temporarily -- basically, that means it was really sunny out. Snow had blanketed the landscape. The entire state of Maine now qualified for postcard status. It was mid-January. Kathy had some plans that afternoon. It was Sunday; I actually had free time ... It occurred to me that the stars and planets must have aligned themselves just so. The plan came to me in a matter of seconds -- I was going to take out my snowshoes for the first time in 3 years. Murphy, my always-ready-and-willing companion (a beautiful 4-year old Husky/Border Collie mix), and I got in the car. The adventure was underway!

I knew exactly where we were headed -- Field’s Pond in Orrington. Murphy and I had been running by there on an almost daily basis that month and the idea of walking out onto the frozen, snow-covered pond seemed unreal to me; I was going to do it! So was Murphy!

When we got onto the lake, after I put on the rusty old snow shoes, I sort of had a plan. I had taken my boat out there the past fall with Jon and my Uncle Saul. We found a little stream that extended past a peninsula. We explored it in the boat for some way … we must have gone a mile down this magical, windy stream into nowhere. I wanted to go back -- I wanted to see where that stream went! Murphy and I hit the lake and headed toward the stream.

I had never snowshoed across ice before. Accordingly, I was a bit concerned of falling through. Initially, I was especially cautious -- regardless of all the snowmobiles that had blazed trails across the lake (a sure sign that the ice was thick enough for my dog and me!). With time, I felt more confident with my endeavors. I was becoming one with the landscape -- the sun, the white pine trees, the omnipresent snow, Murphy dancing through the snow, and, perhaps above all, the perfect stillness of winter in Maine … in one word: Perfect. I was in love with the world out there on Field’s Pond.

Murphy and I came to the peninsula. We walked onto it. Clearly, we were the only ones here. We came to what would be a perfect camp site -- Kathy and I will have to come out here in May! We could bring the marshmallows, the Thunderbird, and Murphy -- that would be fun!

We eventually got to the other side of the peninsula. The stream was there, albeit not as frozen as everything else was. It was clear that I would not be able to explore this stream on my snowshoes -- temporary disappointment set in. I would just have to go explore Brewer Lake (a larger, adjacent lake with several islands); not a bad consolation. Murphy thought it was just fine.

Between the peninsula and the stream was what appeared to be a solid strip of snow-covered ice. We would have to walk about 200 yards on that strip until we got back to the main body of Field’s Pond. Off we went. Quickly, very quickly, I had an unnerving thought -- my right foot, snowshoe and all, was completely submerged in icy water. Not good. My heart raced into overdrive. I suddenly had a thought that occurs to me about once-a-year as an outdoorsman; I’m going to pay for taking this stupid risk in the first place … My left foot was still OK -- and close to the perimeter of the land. I lunged toward the land, grabbing onto some vegetation -- a bush on the shore -- just large enough for me to pull myself to safety.

Within five minutes, this trip went from the most comforting, peaceful experience of my life, to a near-disaster. Great irony.

Murphy and I negotiated our way back to the main body of the pond through the thick undergrowth of the peninsula. My next few steps onto the pond were, to be understated, hesitant. Sometimes my zest for adventure puts me in a dangerous position. It happens about once a year and it always makes me uneasy about whatever it is that drives my decisions. At least now it happened in January -- I’ve reached my quota this year already! After about another 1/4 mile, I felt more relaxed on the pond. Eventually, we reached some snowmobile tracks -- home base! I felt better now!

Murphy and I followed the tracks through a short path in the woods over to Brewer Lake. Like all Maine lakes this time of year, it too was majestic. Blue skies, snow-covered lake. Perfect. Directly in front of us was an island. To the right were some people icefishing. I figured we could head toward the island, check out the ice fishing, and then head back. Murphy agreed.

After a few steps, we saw a large bird flying toward us from the island. It was the only bird we had seen all day, so we took an extra look. As it came closer, it became unmistakably clear -- a bald eagle -- as proud as they come. The bird glided gracefully and purposefully directly overhead. It must have come within 15 feet of us. Murphy was just as attentive to it as I. Eventually, it soared over to Field’s Pond -- out of sight. What a moment -- what a memory.

We walked along. Beyond the island, we came to the people ice fishing. I had never seen ice fishing up-close and so I was pleased to have the opportunity. Murphy and I approached them: A guy about my age tinkering with all sorts of gear, a young girl about 10 years old, perhaps the guy’s daughter, and a small brown and white dog that welcomed Murphy with standard playful gestures. Murphy and her new friend played chase on the snow -- it was fun just to watch.

The guy fishing was very friendly. He showed me his gear, told me about what people were catching, etc. He indicated that people do catch salmon out here, although he had, to that point, only caught one white perch. He seemed happy with that. He pointed out several traps of his that were scattered in the area. A red flag sticks up from the trap when a fish bites. Great fun! When we were talking, he was in the process of baiting a live minnow -- hook through both eyes, of course.

In what seemed like an instant of pride, my new friend suggested that I take a look at his catch. He pointed to another trap, about 20 yards away, and indicated that the perch was right near it. I headed over. By the time I got there, the sometimes-loyal Murphy had decided to join me. When we got to the trap, I looked around. No fish. I gestured over to him to ask if I were in the right place. He looked most surprised that I did not see the fish. In a moment of grave concern, he came running over. I continued my visual search -- to no avail. In seconds, the ice-fisherman joined me -- we were both stumped. He was upset. I felt bad. Once these emotions were at least somewhat manifest, I looked over to Murphy.

Murphy’s behavior meant exactly one thing -- someone had found this man’s fish. Murphy was involved in that distinctive fixed action pattern of lying directly on her back and wriggling with joy -- she was on the fish, alright. I gestured to her to stop. At that point, she stopped, put the fish in her mouth, and took off. Suddenly, the foot in the water did not seem so bad ... After a brief chase, I got the fish back. I then placed it where the fisherman stated it had been in the first place.

It was now all too clear at this point what course of action was most appropriate. I smiled. I eked out a, “Good luck!” … or was it, “Take care!”? I looked at Murphy. We headed back across this beautiful winter wonderland. We made it to the car. What a day! We would do it all over again in a second.