Miracle on Ice
Exploring the frozen waters of southwest Montana.
It was a dry, brown winter. Early-season snowfall lulls had the Gallatin Valley looking unseasonably bare in December. Bridger sported a measly 13-inch base. Big Sky wasn’t even 20-percent open. Which meant, as a ski instructor relying on snow to bring work, I was having more down time than expected, or really even wanted.
The forecast called for another cold, snow-free spell—the third of the month. I’d spent the first two trying to enjoy skiing on rock-sprinkled ice, but wasn’t sure I was up for it again. That’s when Adam asked if I wanted to play hockey. I didn’t have skates, nor had I worn any in 10 years... but what did I have to lose? Without knowing if I could still stand on blades, I picked up a secondhand pair. Under grey skies and a brisk wind, our gaggle of friends drove to Diamond Park and walked down to a single makeshift bench that some community member had made and left there. I sat on the plywood and stuffed my feet into the skates. My heels rubbed a bit, but it wouldn’t matter. I wasn’t planning on playing more than a couple times. Just until the snow piled up.
The first few steps were clumsy and awkward. Staying balanced took some getting used to, but I found the groove quicker than I’d expected. After a couple cartoonish falls, I was gliding confidently around the pond. The other fellas had more experience, so they didn’t need much of a warm-up. As soon as I told them I was ready, we launched into a game of high-tempo four-on-four.
I had no idea where to position myself or how to control the puck. Coming to a stop took me a full 20 yards, and I jerked stiff as a board every time I tried to turn. Meanwhile, my opponents danced circles around me all afternoon. They passed the puck between my legs and every time I flirted with controlling it, they took it away. They even used me as a blocker against my own team. Talk about humiliating.
Eventually, the folks who’d been there a while packed it in for the evening, while newcomers laced up and started another game. The result was the same. Most everyone rounded the rink with elegance while I flailed ineptly. My skills hardly improved throughout the day, but I didn’t quit until darkness fell. It had been a full four hours of pond hockey. When I took off my skates, I revealed socks that were only half on my feet. Both were bloody from mangled blisters. My legs were so wobbly that I barely made it to my truck without falling down. When I got home, I collapsed on the couch like a crippled ultra-runner. I drifted off with a grin on my face: that was some of the most fun I’d ever had.
The next day I was on the phone with more friends and co-workers, desperately trying to schedule another game. “Well, I gotta work,” Eli said. “But I can meet you after I get off.” If he stayed at the office all day, we’d only have an hour of light to play. Whether I liked it or not, the dry spell had granted me funemployment, and I would take full advantage. Dismissing his offer, I grabbed my skates, hobbled my way out to my truck, and drove to Missouri Headwaters. On my way out I noticed roadside cattail sloughs glazed in an arctic blue sheet. I parked in a public-access point and wandered through willows to the water’s edge. The cold snap had frozen everything solid. Conditions were perfect.
After testing the ice’s thickness with a couple of trusty foot-stomps and some large boulder tosses, I pushed offshore. Nervous of miscalculating and plunging into the frigid river, I held my breath. Adrenaline shot through me as I coasted farther from the bank toward the smooth icy middle. The first few seconds lasted an eternity but to my sweet satisfaction I stayed on top and was gliding across the polished surface of the Gallatin.
I drifted around the bend to find an open highway of undisturbed ice, glossy and serene. A ray of golden light beamed right down the middle and lit up the Bridgers in the background. I paused to admire the scene for a hot second before opening it up. Doing my best to imitate Apolo Ohno launching from the starting line, I sprang into a five-step run before lengthening my stride and soaring on one skate for 20 feet at a time. I went around another corner, and another, and two more after that. Each one unveiled a new stretch of river. It felt novel and exciting, adventurous even. Again I stayed out ’til dark before going home basked in a blissful afterglow.
The next few weeks were rinse and repeat. I felt like a kid again, nearly every day calling and asking friends if they could come out and play. If we had the numbers, we’d round up a game of pond hockey, sometimes using our shoes as goals. If only a few of us were available, we explored stretches of ice off the radar. Most of the time, conditions didn’t permit for one reason or another, but every once in a while, our scouting paid off and we’d find a random creek or ditch that had skateable ice.
Dry days turned into dry weeks, but as bleak as December was in terms of snow, I ended the year with a fresh take. I was meant to spend the holidays as a ski instructor, teaching newbies how to get their feet under them on the slopes. Instead, I found myself in the beginner’s mindset, navigating the learning curve of being a novice and enjoying the novelty of trying something new. And it wasn’t just about the technical skills of skating, though mine did gradually improve over time. The real reward was seeing Bozeman in a new light altogether.
I grew up in this valley and sometimes I can fall victim to becoming jaded of what it has become. But never before had I skated laps on an unnamed cattail pond. Never before had I played a hockey game on Quake Lake. Never before had I thought of Hyalite Creek as a place to explore in the winter. So, thanks Bozeman. All it took was a little ice skating to prove me wrong once again.
