The Perils of the Ice Bridge
Tough and Easy Stages

By John McCabe

A wintry Island memory from 1978.

“Can’t we take the air taxi to St. Ignace?” son Sean asked.

“Why?” I said. “If we walk over, we save money, and the exercise will be good for us. Besides, it’ll be an adventure.” He looked a little dubious so I told him the temperature was only fifteen degrees, warm for our part of the world. Moreover the sun was out -- a perfect day for a brisk walk across the ice bridge. It would be a pleasantly vigorous hour and a half, the average time for our five-mile trek over the ice from British Landing to St. Ignace.

11:31 a.m. We step out on the ice, and it is a beautiful day indeed. Sun out fully, a somewhat sharp wind but that merely seems invigorating. Because it is a Sunday morning, little sign of life in the form of snowmobiles.

12:03 p.m. The wind seems higher. An Islander on snowmobile returning from St. Ignace appears unexpectedly, stops and asks, “Walking over? Are you serious?” Later I will remember that tone of incredulity. I should have taken warning from it. He tells us of one wet spot -- a crack in the ice a half mile from St. Ignace. “But you can jump across.”

12:20 The sun is now obscured by driving snow that unexpectedly fills the air. A sudden storm, the kind that I have seen come up quickly and leave as soon.

12:26 The ice is amply firm but the wind is now piling up the snow in drifts that make walking difficult. We are definitely behind schedule.

12:30 The swirling snow obscures our vision, at times completely. At those moments we cannot even see the Christmas trees that are placed every fifty yards or so to mark the path of the thickest ice. I’m getting a little worried.

12:40 The wind has increased.

12:45 By this time we should be almost across. We are considerably less than half way. The wind and snow are dreadful.

12:50 Instead of walking backwards only occasionally to defeat the sting of the wind, we are walking that way continually. The wind-chill factor has reduced the temperature to below zero. We are extremely cold and must stop frequently to slap our legs to stimulate circulation. I should have foreseen wind-chill.

12:56 Walking backwards head-down has one advantage: one can appreciate the beauty of the ice at those spots free from snow. A rich gray-blue, and at times when ice broken by a thaw has re-formed into slabs pushed up at odd angles, the color is an intense green-blue.

1:10 An empty box of Copenhagen chewing tobacco. We take a curious comfort in this. Something intensely human in this howling whiteness.

1:15 The wind increases. We can see nothing. We must stop, sit on the ice and just hold on to each other. For the first time I am truly afraid. And profoundly angry with myself. It’s bad enough putting myself in this danger; I have no right putting my son into it. Although sturdy and tall for his age, he is only fourteen and he doesn’t deserve this result of my folly. I do.

1:25 We get up and go on because the alternative is freezing, and for the first time in my life I realize that I am now absolutely entitled to say, “I was freezing to death.” My legs are numb, Sean’s feet are numb, and we have to do vigorous slapping to prevent frost bite. I guess it to be fifteen degrees below zero. One of the lenses of my sun glasses has fallen out and I pull down my hood to cover the exposed eye. That, and being hunched over to defeat the blast, must make me look like a comic Quasimodo. I don’t feel very comic.

1:30 As nearly as I can make out we are just a little more than half way across. We cannot see St. Ignace at all because of the storm; Mackinac Island has also vanished in this white hell.

1:40 At one of our frequent stops, I try to cheer Sean by telling him that when we reach the mainland I will buy him a dinner of his favorite food, lobster. He has no comment, and I don’t blame him.

2:05 If it were not for these blessed Christmas trees marking the route, we would have no idea of where we are and could easily be far out in the lake in truly dreadful peril. These trees, with tattered bits of tinsel still clinging to them, are the only comfort we have.

2:25 We have reached the large crack in the ice we were told about. It seems frozen over to me but -- too late -- I find it is not. My right foot plunges into open water covered with a crust of icy snow that looks firm. A scramble to safety.

2:35 The storm has subsided to the point where we can at least see St. Ignace. There is less snow in the air but the wind is as bitter.

2:50 A human. A snowmobiler from St. Ignace going across Moran Bay offers a lift, but we refuse. Frost-bitten as we surely must be, we perversely want the final victory of having conquered the Straits on our own this awful day. Foolish pride doubtless. I’m put in mind of Dr. Samuel Johnson who, after attaining success, told Lord Chesterfield, then ready to render patronage earlier much sought by the good doctor: “Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground encumbers him with help?” The parallel is not exact, but then I’m not thinking very clearly. We are grateful for the offer nonetheless, thank the snowmobiler, and go on to finish the last half mile.

3:23 We step ashore.

That evening, first aid satisfactorily rendered, we sit at our ease in a local restaurant. Dipping a goodly morsel of lobster into his butter, Sean said, “Dad, I hope I never have to go through anything like that again in my whole life. But I learned something. I sure now know what the word ‘adventure’ means.”

I drank to that.

John McCabe, year-around resident of Mackinac Island, has for decades been professional actor, drama professor, and show business biographer. This is the last of 28 columns Mr. McCabe has written for the Town Crier since 2001, covering memories of his life in acting, teaching, writing, and living on Mackinac. He originally wrote this piece for the college magazine at what was then Lake Superior State College,”but it got shuffled into my papers, and now has just been ‘found’ by me,” he wrote. “It occurs to me that it is just right for my Town Crier column because it gives the summer folk some idea of what winter can be like on the Island.” Dr. McCabe passed away late Monday, September 26.