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Singing Lake
by Bruce Gardner
I had long endured much ribbing about my old car and decided it was time to trade. I still liked the old jalopy and had driven it for so long that it had become a personal trademark. The pale yellow paint was good and the interior upholstery was clean, except for black bear claw marks on the passenger seat back. The only problem with the vehicle was that, after a quarter of a million miles, it was difficult to start. The standing joke around the office was that Bruce kept the car running all night so as to be able to drive it next morning. (I categorically deny that charge.) At any rate, I did trade it in for a new-to-me shiny replacement and the ribbing has died down.
Having re-joined the human race with a vehicle that starts with a mere turn of the key, my wife and I decided to take a Sunday drive to the Big Hole Valley. With the early coming of winter, the fishing has slowed and we were looking for an alternate activity to engage our curiosity. Our route included a loop over Chief Joseph Pass to Wisdom, overland to Mussigbrod Lake, east and south across the Big Hole River, a late lunch at Fetty’s in Wisdom, and a return drive to Hamilton.
Our habit when traveling is to make frequent stops to observe the critters we find. Their appearance is listed in a small note pad. We spotted a flock of 5 Rough-legged hawks, newly returned for the winter from the northern tundra. While we observing the hawks, a flock of Horned larks flashed ahead of us. A skunk made a brief appearance before disappearing into the underbrush. The day was cold, bright, and sunny and we felt as though we had the valley to ourselves.
The gravel road to the lake climbs a gentle incline across the sage-dotted prairie and cuts through an area burned in the fires of 2000. Salvage timber operations are in evidence, with the dead trees being cut likely headed for post and pole use. Arriving at the lake, we left the car behind and set out on foot to explore the shore. The water level in Mussigbrod Lake is markedly down this time of year and most of the lake surface was covered in a thin sheet of ice. The line of deadfall trees around the lake’s perimeter has been left high and dry by the receding water level. This deadfall timber lies in a neatly stacked ribbon of graying trunks, outlining what would be the shoreline when the lake is at capacity. Now, some 75 feet of dry bank separates this wooden ribbon from the water line of winter.
As we walked past the first, smaller bowl of the lake, we heard a sound that neither of us could identify. Our first guesses as to the sound’s origin included the bugling of a distant elk, the whine of a chainsaw off in the distance, or maybe the whirring tires of a vehicle stuck in the snow just over the far ridge. As we approached the center shoreline of the lake the sound became more distinct and more regular in occurrence. The loudest echoed and reverberated from the surrounding ridges and were accompanied by a series of pinging notes similar to sonar sounds in an old submarine movie. While we watched and listened intently, we became aware of the faint sound of cracking accompanying the louder sounds. The air temperature was hovering in the low twenties and the sun was at its zenith. What we were witnessing was the contraction of the thin sheet of ice in front of us as it melted and fissured. The fissuring ice created sound waves that seemed to be amplified by the tympanic membrane of ice. The loudest of these sounds were similar to whale music, but much more drawn out, much louder, and a bit eerie. A narrow, open lead had formed to our front. As an individual moan faded, the surface of the open water became calm. With a rising crescendo, the open water quivered as the waves of sound rolled to shore. Ripples splashing through the open lead, launching thin sheets of ice aloft. On impact these thin windowpanes of ice shattered with the tinkling sound of breaking glass. I have read accounts of mariners ice-bound in the arctic who described the booming sounds of the grinding ice pack. I have heard the sharp reports produced by ice during spring break-up in Alaska. I know the sound an avalanche makes. The sounds at Mussigbrod Lake were more musical and outside my personal experience. I am thankful my wife and I witnessed the event. Both of us yearned for a tape recorder with which to convey the phenomena.
We made our way back to the car. The wind picked up and the air cooled. The sounds of the singing lake, which had sonorously entertained us for the better part of an hour, quickly died. We were left only with the memory as we recounted the experience to each other throughout the balance of our jaunt.
Montana is like that, isn’t it? One moment you are climbing a small knoll thinking idle thoughts and are confronted by a black bear who is as startled as you are. A Golden eagle launches from a snag, surprising you into a quick stop and a frantic search for the binoculars. A small band of Bighorn sheep cascades down a craggy slope right in front of you. A trout grabs your fly, after the umpteenth cast to the same spot. You climb a timber-choked ridge and suddenly you are rewarded with a view of a beautiful waterfall—so beautiful you quickly look around, mystified at the privilege of being alone in that lovely place. These gifts, and many more, await us here in this great land. All that is required of us is that we take a look.
I’ll be seeing you out there.
November 4, 2002
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