Frozen in Silence

I am blessed to live near one of the largest urban parks in Canada, and even more so because the walk across Fish Creek Park is my commute. Carved by the retreat of ancient glaciers, the river valley was once home to innumerable bison—the Blackfoot peoples for whom this this land is ancestral call them iiníí. It is not difficult to see their ghosts emerge in the icy fog. I imagine them trampling the snowy grasslands on the far side of the frozen creek. On most days, the valley is alive with the sounds and activity of its inhabitants. Birdsong fills the air. The movement of deer and coyotes carry the crunch of crusty snow into the distance. Trees, partially chewed by beavers, sway and creak as if deciding whether to fall. But there are some days in the middle of winter when all is so still and quiet, you can hear the thrum of your pulse in your ears.

Most people, even Canadians, find it difficult to accept that I would choose to walk the forty minutes to and from work when the weather dips below -30ºC. I am continually asked, “are you sure you don’t want a ride? It wouldn’t be any trouble.” I usually respond glibly. “It makes me feel like I’m conquering nature.” Or “It’s the only quiet I get all day.” Or most frequently, “There’s no bad weather, only bad clothing.” But if I’m honest, these partial truths belie my motivations. My excursion into the urban wilds is steeped in ritual and wonder at the profound beauty and peace one can find in the world.

On the frigid windless days of winter, which are few, the sun hangs low in the wide blue expanse of Calgary’s skies. From inside, the depth of the chill air is deceiving. It’s true that the air at -30ºC is exceedingly dry; it doesn’t get into your bones like the frost-touched air of more humid locales. But these temperatures can still sap your warmth in a hurry. On these days, I am careful to dress in layers under my parka, don snowpants, a balaclava under my toque, and an extra pair of ice fishing mittens under my armpits to swap out when my fingers start to burn inside the ones I am wearing. Prepared, I step out into the cold.

In less than fifteen minutes I have reached the entrance to the park. My descent into the valley is steep; aluminum spikes grip the ice to keep me from falling. It’s a long way down. An unpleasant slide to the bottom. The skeletal cottonwood trees begin to swallow the distant clamour of morning traffic. And by time I have crossed over the frosted bridge, the only sound I can hear is the crunch and clack of my own feet against the snow and ice. As the path begins to wind, I stop to allow my breathing to slow. The puffs of cloud I am producing start to shrink until all I can hear is…nothing. I am standing in a still image, the pulsing rhythm of my beating heart the only sign of life. I am filled with awe. Nascent tears well into existence before withdrawing once more. Here, in these moments, I experience a peace I have found nowhere else.

When I arrive at work, someone says “I can’t believe you walked here.” I can’t believe they didn’t.