Back on the actual path that loops around the sanctuary, I was struck by the desolate beauty of the scene. A swath of clear ice formed its own graceful meanders in the stark white expanse of snow crust. Reflections of blue sky in this ice mirror were crossed here and there by the slender shadows of trees. In the distance a northern harrier came into view, flapping its long wings once and silently gliding, like a gray ghost, out of sight.
Where the trail turned right, the channel’s course straightened, running parallel to the course of the Wallkill River proper off to the west. Here I found many strange and fanciful ice formations, including one that resembled a gaping mouth, with an ice “jaw” heaved up from the ground and icicles for teeth. Another looked like an ice cave, whose mouth, big enough for a small child to enter, was ringed by the stems of saplings. I envisioned entering this cave and descending into an underworld of frost, with ice palaces and “frost beings” like those in Nordic mythologies. The cold might have dulled my wits, but it quickened my imagination!
I stopped on the wooden footbridge near the sanctuary entrance to listen to the chortling of red-winged blackbirds, the same sound that greeted me at the start of my walk. Their ringing “chonga — reeee” is for me the most reliable harbinger of the coming spring. Though I also heard the cardinal’s “birdie birdie birdie,” and the Carolina wren’s “tea kettle tea kettle tea kettle,” I place more trust in the red-winged blackbird’s pronouncements. Snow and ice may still cover the landscape, he tells us, but a new season is just around the meander.
