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.
It isn't that ice is necessary for our survival. There is something magical and restorative about the Chigmit Mountains' wintry reflection filtered through a martini on the rocks in the middle of summer, about homemade soda frosted to perfection, about homebrewed beer chilling in a bucket as we head across the lake for a picnic.
Following tradition, following lines
My father tells stories of his early days in Wisconsin, how his family stored enormous amounts of ice for the summer. With no other option for refrigeration back then, the job was a huge undertaking. I carry on a similar tradition here in Alaska: a smaller enterprise on a much larger lake.
Of course, I use a chainsaw instead of a four-foot circular saw hooked to an old car engine. And my horsepower for hauling doesn't consume oats and have a twitching tail; it drinks gas by the gallon and burps exhaust. The metal ice tongs my father used as a youth were passed on to me. They are rusty, repaired by welds but perfect for their purpose.
Marking out a grid is my first order of business. Bigger sizes mean less cutting but they also mean more weight; it's good to remind myself that a cubic foot of ice can weigh just shy of 60 pounds. As I get older and my back gets stiffer, I've reduced the size more than once. Maybe someday I'll get it through my thick skull that the blocks look small until the lifting begins.
After the grid is laid out, Anne and I take turns with the saw, following the lines and cutting down to within an inch or two of water. I carve out a wedge-shaped chunk to serve as a ramp. Then I wiggle into rain gear and finish the cuts while water streams behind the saw and hoses my Helly Hansens. My old metal ice chipper serves double duty as a pry bar.
Anne bobs the first block up and down with the chipper. I stand by with my ice tongs and wait. Up, down, UP! And I grab it. Together we muscle it up the ramp onto the surface. We bob, grab and slide, again and again, until we are surrounded by what looks like a glacial version of Stonehenge or a giant set of dominoes. Before grappling the heavy chunks into a sled or trailer, we cut spruce boughs and mark all sides of the open hole as a warning to travelers.
Changing conditions
One winter a storm broke up the ice and we simply collected irregular ice chunks from shore. Another year a huge pressure crack heaved up slabs of ice to head height, and we didn't even need to bend to make our cuts. The raised ice fell beautifully into the sled we'd slipped underneath. Twice the upper end of the lake never formed enough ice to harvest. One year there was no ice at all.
But I remember the time the ice was so thick — deeper than our saw's bar — that we didn't even hit water. Once the first row was removed, Anne hopped into the hole to finish the cuts.
"How much ice is under me?" she asked before firing up the saw.
"Plenty," I reassured her. I was standing above her, on more than two feet of solid ice.
The following day, the hole filled with water.
"Maybe next time you should wear a life vest," I joked.
Anne didn't smile.
"Maybe next time you do the cutting."
Buried in sawdust
Years ago, I built a large wooden box with lumber milled from local trees and placed it near the shaded mountain stream that runs through our property. It has served us well. We pack the box's sawdust-insulated walls to the brim with ice; each heavy load is slid and grunted up a temporary wooden ramp. Then we stuff sawdust into every crack and heap a thick layer on top — and wait for summer.
I'm not sure how long my fossilizing physique will allow me to keep up this indulgence. A few years ago I was ready to quit. The herniated disks in my back were pushed to the limit after butchering a winter moose, shoveling endless snow and cutting timber for a cabin restoration project.
Ice collecting had slid down to last on my priority list. But Anne didn't want to rule it out.
Sure enough, as we pushed the "ice fishing" season to the brink, the kinks in my back eased somewhat and my posture straightened a bit — and I thought, well, maybe. So I popped some ibuprofen, slapped on my back brace and started for the tool shed. I recalled the soothing effects of ice applied to burns and sore muscles — muscles that ache more all the time. In a moment of inspiration, I convinced myself that the ice was for medicinal purposes and not just for cooling brew. Some might say those are the same thing, and who am I to argue?
Steve Kahn lives on the north shore of Lake Clark. He is the author of "The Hard Way Home: Alaska Stories of Adventure, Friendship and the Hunt."