It has been warm for three days. Well, warm by Polar Vortex standards, anyway. It has been in the thirties and forties, meaning it's almost bathing suit weather here in New England. Oh, it won't last; it never does. It's the typical January thaw, although that's not official until we hit sixty degrees. Okay, by official I mean officially declared by the old folks who live in the hills, not by the meteorologists who claim to know all. We still consider anything from -59 degrees to +59 degrees to be normal January weather.
The youngest returns to college today. We pack the car with everything he brought home for December break, plus important things he will need to get through the remainder of winter: work boots, gloves, a jacket, and shorts. That's right, shorts. The shorts are the no-brainer. It's the coat that takes some convincing.
We decide to avoid the highway. The last five out of six times we've made this trip, multple highway traffic back-ups occur due to random accidents. I don't want to go through that a sixth time in as many weeks. We decide to go the back way, up Bypass 28. A few miles before we arrive at the school, there is a massive lake the spans acre after acre on either side of the road. The views are, for lack of any more expressive adjective, spectacular. Mountains can be seen beyond the tree line from the top of the hill, and patches of ice float far below in the melting waters of Massabesic.
We pass cars and trucks and vans parked along the roadway. At first I assume people are snowshoeing or cross country skiing around Massabesic Lake. But there are far too many cars. As we turn the final corner, we see dozens of ice fishing tents set up in various parts of the lake. The slosh-covered lake. The lake with the open water flowing under the bridge, mere yards from where people are ice fishing. The lake that may be a few short hours from safe crossing. The lake that hasn't seen freezing temperatures for days.
Yeah, I'm a chicken. I see the open water and I see the soft spots, and I also see the thirty or forty people out on the thin ice fishing away, and there's no way I'd go out there. Not a chance. After dropping the boy off, I decide to come home this way, as well. Several people are packing it in just after noon as I drive by. It seems like most people are still safely on the soaking wet ice, but it also seems like some wiser ones know their limits. It's exceedingly warm for ice fishing. I have windows rolled down in my car, it's that warm.
A few miles up the road, just beyond the crest that opens to the mountainous panorama, an ambulance flies by, lights flashing and siren blaring. Oh sure, this is one of the ways to get to the nearest hospital. My brain knows this. But my brain also knows that some dumbass might have ventured too close to the bridge, too close to the open water, too close to danger.
Look, it's 48 degrees today, and the temps are planning on hovering around there for a few days, so do me a favor. I've already abandoned the highway because of idiot drivers who cannot seem to manage the two lanes of 93 north without causing mayhem. Please, please don't ruin the beautiful views of Massabesic with people knowing you floated face down for a few hours while firefighters tried to fish your body out of the channel like some scene from
The Omen.
Besides, the lake feeds into the water treatment plant. It would make me feel a lot better knowing my son and his college roommates aren't siphoning out what's left of your rotted guts every time they turn on their faucet.
But other than that, enjoy ice fishing, folks!
