On thin ice

Natural History, Dec, 2003 by Kirsten Weir

I grew up in rural Michigan, in a house surrounded by woodlands, with a sparkling, springfed lake for a backyard. In the autumn the lake reflected the patchwork of reds and oranges from the maple trees that ringed it. In the spring the still surface mirrored the pale green of new buds. The cool water always looked darkest then, dyed by the tannins leached from fallen leaves during the long winter. As warm weather came on, the water cleared.

The lake was our childhood playground, summer and winter; it embodied my sense of the seasons. Each hot day of summer vacation I played and swam in the water until my fingers were wrinkled prunes. When the bitter winter winds blew in, the surface froze to a perfect rink. My sisters and I had strict orders to stay off the ice until my father tested it and pronounced it sale, but from the moment he gave the go-ahead, we'd skate until our toes went numb.

We were (most of the time) obedient children. We never ventured onto the ice until permission was granted. Other creatures were not so patient. One winter a buck fell through the ice.

I don't know who first spotted the struggling deer, but I remember pressing my face against the living-room window that afternoon and watching him thrash about, trying to regain solid ground. He was a large, heavy animal, with an impressive rack of antlers, and each time he heaved himself onto the ice, another chunk of it would break beneath him, plunging him back into the frigid water.

It was clear that the deer was making no progress, so my father called in the "troops." A group of neighbors soon congregated along the shore to assess the situation and work out a plan. After some discussion, my father and a neighbor got out a few shovels and broke up the thin ice around the mouth of the stream that ran into the lake. Then they launched our rowboat, carrying a length of heavy rope. Fortunately the animal was close by, but as the rescuers made their way toward him, the buck made desperate lunges in the opposite direction, smashing through the thick sheet of ice as he went.

The two men fashioned a lasso and, after several attempts, managed to encircle the deer's head with the rope. They coaxed the terrified animal gradually toward the shore, and helped him climb the bank. The rescue operation took more than an hour.

When, freezing and exhausted, he finally felt land beneath his limbs, the buck collapsed. My mother covered him with blankets, and a neighbor phoned the local chapter of the Humane Society for help. When their man arrived, he told us there was nothing for it but to give the deer a quick and painless death.

No one in the rescue party was ready to consign the animal to such a rate. After all, he had put up a magnificent struggle. But it was my father who flatly refused to give in. "You hear that?" he shouted at the buck. "They're going to kill you." He kicked the animal firmly in the rump. "Get on, get out of here."

To our astonishment, the buck got up. Wobblykneed, as though he were punch-drunk, he stumbled toward the woods. After a few yards he picked up his pace. Then his gait returned to normal, and he vanished into the trees.

My father died a year ago this spring; a few months after that, my childhood home went up for sale. On a hot, bright July day, my sisters and I took the rowboat to the middle of the lake and sprinkled his ashes into the cool, blue water. We couldn't think of a better way to say goodbye.

Kirsten Weir is a science writer who lives in New York City. She has a degree in biology from Kalamazoo College in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and a master's degree in science journalism from New York University.