Green Ice and Chinooks

“Green ice on the river,
when chinooks begin to blow,
Mountain Men will rendevous
As they did in the long, long ago.”

My Daddy used to love to sing this song, especially toward the end of a long winter. I always loved it because I understood it in a profound, almost physical way; because its sound smelled fresh and new, full of all those delicious “re” words: renewal - revival - renaissance - renascence - rebirth - resurrection - resurgence - revitalization - rekindling - restoration - renovation - rejuvenation. I loved this song because I could hear that sweet, green, eternal hope in my Daddy’s voice.

I knew about ice. I knew that solid ice is thick, white and opaque. It is as silent as the depth of winter, telling nothing, giving away no secrets; blank, expressionless, mute. I knew what happens when ice begins to turn green. It becomes gradually translucent and begins to murmur and then to gurgle. You become aware that something is running below the surface, it whispers with importance, soon all of its thoughts are becoming transparent. Even though the ice still completely covers the water, it can’t hide anything any more and it rushes to babble every secret it ever knew. Then suddenly, when you least expect it, it cracks right through, the dark water rushes in and the river begins to surge again. It has so much to say after a winter of silence that it soon becomes deafening. A river coming out of ice is very loud.

I knew about chinooks. I was completely shocked, however, when I first looked up the definition of ‘chinook.’ “A warm, dry wind experienced along the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains in the United States and Canada. Most common in winter and spring, it can result in a rise in temperature of 20C (35 to 40F) in a quarter of an hour.” I was dumbfounded. Only along the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains? The rest of the world doesn’t have chinnoks? The entire rest of the world? How is that possible? It was like discovering that the moon only appears over the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains and everyone else on the earth has no idea that it exists. How would I begin to describe that huge, luminous orb that floats across the sky to someone who knew nothing about it?

There are winds all winter long. Some are colder than others, but they are all cold. Some winter winds are kept out by a coats and clothing, they blow around you, lifting your hair and ruffling your skirts, freezing your fingers and face. Some winds go through you like a knife of ice, right through whatever you are wearing and straight down to drill your bones. But then, just when you least expect it, in the middle of fields of snow or bare frozen ground, suddenly it is there. Chinook. It is always when you least expect it. You stop whatever you are doing and turn your face directly into the wind, never quite believing it at first. And against your face comes a singing of air that is not only warm and dry, but, drinkable and delicious; overflowing with that sweet, green, eternal hope.

Spring! “It is coming,” the wind whispers, “it was never truly lost. This is real! This is true. It is genuine, honest, unquestionable . . . Spring is on its way!” Just like the coldest wind of winter, the chinnok goes straight down to your bones. But it is full of the buttery warmth of a sun that will soon shine on daisies, the softness of a world that will soon turn from hardened white to tender feathers of green. The chinnok goes down to your bones and melts the marrow with promise.

It is a trickster, the chinnok; a jester, a wit, a wag. It dances and flirts and juggles your heart with one hand. But it is an honest joker, it never lies, for though it will never tell you when, it is always right: spring IS always on its way, and it does always come.

When the chinnoks began to blow, the ice on the river turned green and began to melt. When the river came out of ice, it could be used for travel once again. The Mountain Men spent most of their lives alone, hunting, trapping, traveling the land. But in the spring, they came together in a huge Rendevous to trade furs and news, to talk, laugh and celebrate. Mountain Men didn’t use clocks or calendars, but they always knew when the Rendevous was going to happen. When there was green ice on the river, and chinnoks began to blow, ice off would soon follow and as soon as they were able to navigate the river, it was time for the Rendevous. A time for revival, rekindling of friendships, restoration of old ties. A time of renewal in the Mountains, a resurgence of life. A time of rebirth and resurrection for the earth. A time of rejuvenation of the human heart.

Things are pretty much still the same on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. The ice on the river is still turning green with the spring, and the sweet, warm chinnoks are still blowing.


©Edwina Peterson Cross