Thin Ice

I was walking home with my eyes closed.

I had walked this way hundreds of times. It was a straight shot until I hit the cedar trees on the other side of the lake, and if there were any unexpected hazards, I could feel or hear them just as easily as see them. It must have been west — I had never checked — but the sun shone white in my eyes as I crossed the lake, so I kept them shut. I was certain. I was safe.

I had lived here all my life. We liked to joke that it snowed for half the year; that was really not far from the truth. For about five months a year, the lake froze over. Skating on the lake would have been a lovely winter tradition, but no one ever did. We had skating rinks in town. It was safer there.

We had been warned since childhood of the dangers of the frozen lake. There were those who slipped on thin ice, who cracked the fragile shell, who fell into the frigid depths. There were those who never returned. There were blankets of snow that blurred the line between rock and ice, such that unwary travelers plummeted into the abyss before they caught any sign of danger at all.

I was no unwary traveler. I could walk this path with my eyes shut. I had never fallen. I knew my step. I was certain. I was safe.

Still, our lake neglected to properly freeze a few spots each year, and no one could ever predict exactly where the dangerous sections of the ice might be. Every once in a while, someone tried to document or test or experiment, but in the end, it remained one of nature's many mysteries. So often, these self-appointed researchers joined the list of unwary travelers. This town had an unusual amount of ghost stories about frozen scientists.

I barely noticed the wind on my face, having lived here my entire life. Still, even with a whole life's experience, each step was a mystery. One step, a reassuring crunch to ground me; the next, an unfortunate angle and a slippery patch. Yet my boots continued to pound against the ground, carelessly, defiantly. For some reason, my pace quickened. Why? I wasn't scared. I knew my step. I was certain. I was safe.

Walking on thin ice was a game that could only be played by ear. Every creak in the ice indicated a weak spot: a warning, only heard by experienced ears, to turn back now before it was too late. By the time one broke the surface, it would be far too late. The safest path would be to avoid walking on the lake at all; the second safest path would be to tread slowly and carefully. And even then, sometimes, creaks and cracks would go unnoticed, and the lake would swallow an unwary traveler whole.

My ears were trained to hear the warnings, yet I was not listening. I was certain. I was safe. I knew I could pass through safely. I had walked this path hundreds of times before.

I wondered how many times those bitter unwary travelers had walked their paths. Thousands? Hundreds? Just once? I wondered how many of them knew the dangers of the frozen lake. I wondered how many had checked under the snow, or felt the creaks and cracks, and were fully aware of the thin ice. How many had ignored the warnings, and tempted fate? How many had sprinted recklessly across the danger zone? How many had escaped unharmed despite their foolishness? How many had frozen alive because of it?

Or worse, perhaps there were those who had made no mistake at all. How many had seen the warnings, and wisely turned back, and fallen anyway? How many had not noticed any warning at all? Surely this couldn't have been their fault... although, everyone knew the safest path would have been to avoid the ice altogether. How many didn't know to avoid it? How many thought they were avoiding it? How many had no choice but to walk it?

I sped my pace. Perhaps I was trying to get past the lake as quickly as possible. Perhaps I was tempting fate.

There was no argument for my case. I knew as well as anyone that there was no wisdom in my intention to run or die trying. It should be human nature to learn from others' mistakes. Yet I did not slow my pace. If I was to learn, it should be from my own mistakes. I had no reason to tread carefully. The lake had never hurt me. And until it did, I would keep running.

I should have known better — I did know better. But in that moment I told myself I didn't. I feigned ignorance to justify myself. The lake had never hurt me. According to my experiences, it could be assumed that it never would. Until further information was gathered, I had no reason not to continue exactly as I was. A dog cannot be blamed for tasting dinner if he has never been sent outside for it. He knew no better. Today I was an animal and a child. Today I knew nothing but my own experience. Today I intended to learn things the hard way.

By the time I learned my lesson, it would be too late. How many unwary travelers had fallen through the ice and survived? How many had learned not to test the ice? How many had learned nothing at all?

I was sprinting now. I imagined my feet slamming against ice, daring it to falter. Creaks and cracks, warnings and signs, the ice daring me right back. A contest of wills; me against nature. It was the dread of impending doom. If I survived, my boots would hit warm rocks, and I would laugh at the ice, who had no power over me. I would learn nothing. If I fell, the frosty water would wrap around me until I could feel nothing at all, and it would seem an inevitability. I would not survive. I would learn nothing.

Yet on I ran! I could not be blamed for my foolishness. I was certain! I was safe!

Finally I smelled the cedars, and my boots touched the grass on the other side of the lake. I opened my eyes. There it was: the woods and the path leading to my house. I turned and looked back on the lake I had just walked around. The surface of the water swirled gently with the grass, with the wind. The gravel path was crunchy and muddy and warm.

It was summertime. I was certain. I was safe.