It was a beautiful crisp night in January. We were at
a party being hosted by one of our RCMP friends who lived with 3 other
“Mounties” on Dominion Street just a few houses from the banks of the
Assiniboine River.
We had met here for a party and to take in some
sledding. There was an open space free of shrubs and trees at the riverbank’s
edge. Here you could take a run and jump on your sled and then coast way out
onto the river. It was always an exhilarating feeling as you picked up speed
going down the steep bank and coasted far out onto the smooth snow-covered ice.
Indoors the party had attracted about 20 of my crowd
of friends. There was a BYOB bar set up. Protocol required that you bring an
alcoholic beverage and that you only tried out someone else’s drinks with their
permission. As I was doing well at the railroad job I had, I usually brought a
bottle of good Scotch. This meant I had a lot of requests to try this Scotch from
my friends who were financially not as “well-off” as was I.
After circulating and visiting with my friends and
after a nice drink of Scotch and partly to get away from the drink requests, a
few of us decided to go and do some riverbank sledding. We got our sleds and
walked to the riverbank’s edge. The four of us looked at each other. One of us was
going to have to make the test run.
Now a test run was required because you never knew the
state of river ice. Even though it was a cold time of year and the surface
appeared to be frozen a couple of feet thick, you never knew what could be
hiding beneath the one-foot thick coating of snow on the surface. Moving water
can do many things to existing ice. Therefore, a test run was needed.
99 percent of the time your run was smooth and very enjoyably
fast. It was the 1 percent we had to avoid where you might hit rough ice or
even worse, the possibility of a hole in the ice. So then each test run was a
test of one’s courage and probably more so, one’s brains.
Perhaps it was the drink of scotch or maybe it was
just a case of misplaced male machismo, but I had one of those male moments of “Here,
hold my beer!” as I grabbed a sled and flung myself on top of it and threw myself
and the sled over the edge of the riverbank. I rocketed down the embankment and
out onto the ice. I had great momentum and the sled carried me well past the halfway
point of the river and closer to the other side than to the riverbank from which
I had started.
There were cheers from my friends as I contemplated
how far I had ridden. I looked up at the clear sky and thought, “What a
wonderful night for sledding!” But as I got up off the sled and stepped into
the snow, a gut-wrenching feeling hit me as I realized that where I had
stepped, the water welled up almost to my knees. Somewhere in the vicinity of
me and my sled there could be a hole in the ice through which the water had made
its way onto the surface of the ice. I was closer to the other side but seeing
as I had already crossed a good part of the river without going under, I
thought it might be better to retrace my route. Going under – now there was a case for a
feeling of horror. Going through a hole in the ice and then being swept along under
the ice underwater by the current was a most horrible way to die. And die you
would!
I pointed down to my feet and shouted, “Water!” Their
jubilant cries and laughter turned to concern. Slowly I turned and gingerly
placing each foot down until I could feel firm ice beneath the foot, I started
to retrace my sled’s runner blades’ paths. I could see water in them and that
did not make me feel any better. Slowly I pulled my sled and inched my way
forward, carefully and tentatively feeling for solid footing.
As I slowly made my way to the riverbank where I had
started my daring dash, I noticed that the water was minimal in the tracks I
was leaving which to me meant I was leaving the area where there was the break
in the ice. My speed picked up as I neared the embankment until I was finally
running the last 20 metres and I scrambled up the riverbank to cheers and
back slaps from my concerned friends.
They quickly escorted me to the house so that I could
shed some of my wet clothes. My Mountie friend gave me a pair of his jeans. It
made for an interesting fit as he was over six feet tall and I was 3 inches shy
of a six-foot height. My slide out onto the ice was retold many times by the
friends who had accompanied me. The story grew in epic proportions. The dangers
were exaggerated. Another large drink of scotch was proffered to me as everyone
toasted me like a hero who had returned from the dead.
I guess in a way, I was very fortunate.
There might have been only a crack in the ice or there could have been a hole
through which I could have fallen. I do know that I shall never trust river ice
again unless I am walking on it with a firm lifeline tied around my waist and
the other end in the hands of friends who could pull me out should I have the
misfortune to go through the ice. I also am amused when I hear the expression
of “Here, hold my beer!” as another foolish macho hero tries to attempt
something stupid or even dangerous! A fool such as I!
