It was another morning of subzero temperatures, a dog adrift in the snow, and fresh county snow plow crud in the driveway. Winter's not letting go, so I shrugged. Why not let winter have its way? I bundled up, threw snowshoes in the truck, and headed to the Eben ice caves.
I'd never been to the caves, but a couple of years ago I cut a little map out of the paper showing how to get there. All I needed to find was North Eben Road off M-94. Most folks might guess Eben Road to be that one road that cuts through Eben, and they'd be right. But, if you miss Eben, you miss the road. (I was gawking at towering snow banks.) However, on a return pass through town I realized where I was and turned north, which took me through rolling and frosted farmland. The next turn was hard to miss, and that led to a dead end where three cars were parked.
Well, I thought, I must be there.
My eyes followed a well-packed trail that went up a snow bank, crossed a large field, and headed into the woods. The snow was probably three or four feet deep, but a couple just leaving told me I would not need my snowshoes as the trail was solid. At the far end of the field, I passed another couple leaving, then another, and that accounted for all the cars, so I was alone.
Shortly after entering the woods there is a sign for the caves. Officially, they are the Rock River Canyon Ice Caves in the Rock River Wilderness Area in the Hiawatha National Forest. According to the sign there are two canyons in the area, Rock River and Silver Creek, and each is about 150 feet deep. The caves are a half mile or so into the wilderness along a trail that would become steep, the sign read, and possibly icy.
At first the trail was easy, the winter woods friendly and serene. The snow that remained plastered on the north side of the trees reminded me of caterpillars, many with a curl at their top end, usually about halfway up a tree, like a snowy worm recoiling from its knobby cousin heading down. Giant balls of snow were offered up by smug and stumpy waiters, and the trees and their dark shadows created a never-ending doodle. I felt as if I were in an art gallery, the ultimate art gallery, and who knew for how long the exhibit was booked. Tomorrow it might all be different.
I met up with the canyon, and the trail took a dive. No problem; I've been slipping and sliding, practicing for this, all winter. Then my feet flew up and I landed on my butt, which gave me an idea. I had snow pants on, and even though at this point I didn't need them for warmth, I realized they would be good for sliding down the trail, so that's what I did, sitting down at the top of the incline that traversed the canyon's face and giving myself a push. My mother, who is almost always with me, cried, Oh no! What if you go over the edge?!
The trail zigged and turned upward and there was the ice, a thick draping of it, hanging from a cliff and seeping out of rock. The cliff juts out, allowing the curtain of ice to create a cave. Within the cave are more columns of ice and stalactites of ice - icicles, I guess - and the colors are amber and green and gold and white and an icy blue. The ice is smooth and bumpy and hard as rock. There is a symphony of trickles, ice dripping through columns, riffling through folds, murmuring within hollow walls.
Some icicles have cracked and fallen - there are chunks of light green and blue scattered about in the snow. I step under the overhang for a minute, but with the icy slick floor, the icicles overhead, and the cloistral nature of the cave, I don't stay long. For some reason I think of the time I was walking along a beach and a seagull dropped a shell on my head ... It was nicer, I thought, to lean back into a snow bank, listen to the trickling water, look up at the ice and trees and sky and small poofs of snow that exploded as branches cracked.
Actually, I don't know what caused those poofs of snow. It was a calm day, but every so often there would be a loud pop, and I would look around and see a puff of snow drifting down, like confetti out of a toy champagne popper. There was a slight breeze - occasionally I could hear two old leaves rubbing up against each other - but what caused the cracks and pops and poofs of snow, I don't know.
I headed back, taking my time, resting for a while on a fallen tree, and wishing I could sit on my butt and slide up the trail as well as down. I passed four snowmobilers who were heading in (they had left their rigs in the field, but their outfits and helmets suggested their mode of travel), and near the parking lot I passed two girls on snowshoes and then a trio of teenagers. Before getting in the truck I shed my jacket and rolled down the window, thinking how despite it all, and even in March, winter's pretty damn beautiful.
I'd never been to the caves, but a couple of years ago I cut a little map out of the paper showing how to get there. All I needed to find was North Eben Road off M-94. Most folks might guess Eben Road to be that one road that cuts through Eben, and they'd be right. But, if you miss Eben, you miss the road. (I was gawking at towering snow banks.) However, on a return pass through town I realized where I was and turned north, which took me through rolling and frosted farmland. The next turn was hard to miss, and that led to a dead end where three cars were parked.
Well, I thought, I must be there.
My eyes followed a well-packed trail that went up a snow bank, crossed a large field, and headed into the woods. The snow was probably three or four feet deep, but a couple just leaving told me I would not need my snowshoes as the trail was solid. At the far end of the field, I passed another couple leaving, then another, and that accounted for all the cars, so I was alone.
Shortly after entering the woods there is a sign for the caves. Officially, they are the Rock River Canyon Ice Caves in the Rock River Wilderness Area in the Hiawatha National Forest. According to the sign there are two canyons in the area, Rock River and Silver Creek, and each is about 150 feet deep. The caves are a half mile or so into the wilderness along a trail that would become steep, the sign read, and possibly icy.At first the trail was easy, the winter woods friendly and serene. The snow that remained plastered on the north side of the trees reminded me of caterpillars, many with a curl at their top end, usually about halfway up a tree, like a snowy worm recoiling from its knobby cousin heading down. Giant balls of snow were offered up by smug and stumpy waiters, and the trees and their dark shadows created a never-ending doodle. I felt as if I were in an art gallery, the ultimate art gallery, and who knew for how long the exhibit was booked. Tomorrow it might all be different.
I met up with the canyon, and the trail took a dive. No problem; I've been slipping and sliding, practicing for this, all winter. Then my feet flew up and I landed on my butt, which gave me an idea. I had snow pants on, and even though at this point I didn't need them for warmth, I realized they would be good for sliding down the trail, so that's what I did, sitting down at the top of the incline that traversed the canyon's face and giving myself a push. My mother, who is almost always with me, cried, Oh no! What if you go over the edge?!The trail zigged and turned upward and there was the ice, a thick draping of it, hanging from a cliff and seeping out of rock. The cliff juts out, allowing the curtain of ice to create a cave. Within the cave are more columns of ice and stalactites of ice - icicles, I guess - and the colors are amber and green and gold and white and an icy blue. The ice is smooth and bumpy and hard as rock. There is a symphony of trickles, ice dripping through columns, riffling through folds, murmuring within hollow walls.
Some icicles have cracked and fallen - there are chunks of light green and blue scattered about in the snow. I step under the overhang for a minute, but with the icy slick floor, the icicles overhead, and the cloistral nature of the cave, I don't stay long. For some reason I think of the time I was walking along a beach and a seagull dropped a shell on my head ... It was nicer, I thought, to lean back into a snow bank, listen to the trickling water, look up at the ice and trees and sky and small poofs of snow that exploded as branches cracked.Actually, I don't know what caused those poofs of snow. It was a calm day, but every so often there would be a loud pop, and I would look around and see a puff of snow drifting down, like confetti out of a toy champagne popper. There was a slight breeze - occasionally I could hear two old leaves rubbing up against each other - but what caused the cracks and pops and poofs of snow, I don't know.
I headed back, taking my time, resting for a while on a fallen tree, and wishing I could sit on my butt and slide up the trail as well as down. I passed four snowmobilers who were heading in (they had left their rigs in the field, but their outfits and helmets suggested their mode of travel), and near the parking lot I passed two girls on snowshoes and then a trio of teenagers. Before getting in the truck I shed my jacket and rolled down the window, thinking how despite it all, and even in March, winter's pretty damn beautiful.
