January in the Catskills has proven itself, once again, the creator of mystical and magical see-scapes.
Frozen cascading waterfalls simultaneously resemble Rubanesque figures leisurely lounging beside hungry, angular runway models who are peering beyond a veil of time.
Ice has an amazing way of cusping a two-form existence - solid and liquid. It seems to be one thing, but is really another, depending on perspective.
Charlie and I were en-route for Saturday morning tasks and chores when I caught a glimpse of Tub Mill Falls, showing off - set back not even 100-feet from state Route 206, just north of of the tiny hamlet of Downsville. A mini-ice-capade nestled between sliced shale.
Ever eager to get the perfect photo, I tried many different angles stream side - kneeling, squatting, angled up and down, but none seemed to capture the essence of what I was feeling. I tentatively tested the ice against my 160-pounds, creeping, weight-bearing forward, while carefully balancing for an easy backward dash.
A trickle of icy water, unseen beneath crusty snow, slickened my step and was enough to send me unexpectedly, forcefully, full-weight forward through the ice.
This is not the first time this happened to me. At the tender-age of 12, my older sister and my then-best friend, were walking to a relative's home to borrow ice skates when I spied a frozen pond. I was easily 50-feet ahead of them, anxious to retrieve the ice skates, when I spied what I now know to be a catch-basin, flood control pond.
I approached the edge, which in similar fashion to the mini-ice-capade waterfall, was slick from sunshine and slight-melt. I slipped, skidded and sailed to the middle of the pond before the ice gave way ... and the gravitational pull of the underground, underwater drainage culvert sucked my body back to the edge of the pond .... beneath the several-inch thick ice.
I was trapped beneath the ice. Thirty-six years later, I remembered the moment like it was yesterday. I didn't panic - I still don't in moments of crisis. I just remember banging on the ice, from beneath it, trying to break it, with my skinny, little, ineffective fist ... and that's it.
What happened next was told to me by my sister and friend. They were at least a "few" minutes behind me in stride, leisurely walking and talking. When they got to the pond, though they didn't see me ... they saw my red knit hat (my mother made it for me) sitting on the ice in the middle of the pond. It either got caught on the edge of the ice or was pulled off by the force from which I fell through the ice. Either way, it was enough for them to linger another second to see my wet hair pop through the broken ice.
In a heroic rescue, the friend held my sister's 13-year old feet as she lay across the ice to pull me out of the pond. They figure I was in the water at least 10 minutes, if not longer.
We never did get those ice skates. And I never ventured near ice, or swam with my head under water, from that moment on.
Up to my waist, because of the way I fell, beneath the ice below Tub Mill Falls, I reacted in almost the exact same way, I did when I was 12. I did not panic. Whether a trick of the mind or one's ability to tap into a higher-power that has your back, time seemed to slow down.
I felt the water fill my left hiking boot first. I felt its biting coldness grab my ankle. It felt as though my boot was cementing to the stream's bed. And then - I was crawling to safety. Soaking wet from the waist down. It was eight degrees.
I never made it to the bank yesterday. Charlie and I didn't hike. Instead, he lay at my feet (which were wrapped in a heating pad beneath a down comforter) the entire day. He looked up at me every few minutes, with those acrobatic eyebrows of his (that make him look more human than canine!) which seemed to say ... be careful ... err on the side of caution and stay away from ice of any measure, especially when you are alone.
And in a way that is incredibly empowering, I've reflected on yesterday's events and the larger lesson. This time, I didn't need rescuing. This time, I rescued myself.
I survived.
The end.
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