LAKE CLARK -- The chainsaw quakes in my grip as I line up that first, critical cut.
Moments
later diamond particles spray past my elbow as the sharp teeth score
the ice. My thoughts turn to basic geometric shapes and sawdust
burials. I’m not an ice sculptor roughing out a whimsical dragon, a mad
scientist answering cryogenic urges, or even a chainsaw carver suddenly
weary of wood. No, I’m just an aging bush rat with a desire to capture a
bit of winter for the long days of summer to come.
My wife, Anne,
and I are cutting ice, and I’m afraid there’s no cure for it. This
obsession has been going on for years; frozen souvenirs of Lake Clark
collected and stored until the trickle-down-effect of summer
temperatures consumes as much as we use. Ice is hard to resist. Our
efforts echo the same hunter-gatherer spirit that summons us to harvest
berries and salmon. But to say this is part of a connection to the land
wouldn’t be quite right because — it’s frozen water.
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