In the stillness (Heather)

I'm celebrating two things: an early mark from school and the first snowfall of the year. I've decided to borrow the family car and drive down to Sooke's Creek in the hopes that I can get in a good skate before dark.

The thing I notice, when I switch off the rock'n'roll, turn off the car and slam the door shut behind me, is the quiet. The half inch of fresh snow is not just a mantle over everything visually, it is a blanket over the sound.

There are no bird calls, no creak of ice, no crack of boughs breaking.

I throw my skates, knotted together by the laces, over my shoulder and slide down the side of the creek bank. The creek, powdered with new snow, spreads out smooth in front of me. I spot a log, dust it off and sit to put on my skates. I remove my boots and yank on an extra pair of socks. I pull on the skates and draw the laces tight, up through the eyelets then onto the hooks. I flex my ankle to check that I haven't laced too tight. I totter to the edge of the creek, feeling for where the ice begins. I dig in the tip of a skate -- and soar off in one clean stride.

It's so quiet. The half inch of snow on the ice muffles the sound of the skate blades to a quiet shoooosh-sh-sh-sh. There is the slightest creak as the ice adjusts to my weight. I build up speed, taking longer strides, pushing hard. I crouch into a twist, causing a screech as the blades slash sideways. I stop on a dime.

I look back behind me. The car is already out of sight around a bend in the creek. My tracks lie like giant herringbones, each three or four feet long. The snow is slashed and scattered where I came to a halt.

I am so alone, and it is so quiet, and it is so white. The fallow fields are white. The birch bark is white. There are spots of green-black where the underbranches of the pine and spruce show through, but mostly the trees are covered in white as well. There is an adjustment of white at the edge of the horizon where the sky acquires a touch of grey.

I listen to the nothing for a moment, then keep moving to stay warm. I tuck my mittened hands into my armpits and glide, glide, herringbone after herringbone, along the creek. I watch for places where the channel gets too narrow. I watch for willows trapped in the ice, lurking to trip me.

But mostly I stride faster and faster, faster than anyone can run, cutting through the shallow snow.

Suddenly, the creek widens to several times its normal size. I slow down and peer ahead for the skater's nemesis: the beaver dam. I'm sure it will be just around the next bend. It will be shrouded in the same snow I am gliding through, and if I'm not careful I will get too close.

Here's the thing about beaver dams. Have you heard the expression, "busy as a beaver"? Well, beavers ARE busy, and their dams are active places, full of furry little bodies -- and lots of heat. The four or five inches of ice I am confident of underneath me will thin to less than an inch closer to the dam. And the water will be deep there.

I don't take any risks. When we were in grade 5 my friend Orest got too close to a dam, went through the fractured ice and was miraculously pulled out by his brothers before he died of hypothermia. So I clamber up the bank and portage ackwardly a long way around the dam. Skates were NOT made for walking.

It's worth it. On the lower side of the dam the ice is narrow again, but there is a whole new patch of pristine creek surface, waiting for me to spin along it. I can't help smiling as I break into a pace that covers the miles, in a style that I know would impress the Olympic judges. I breathe deeply, enjoying the inhalation of cold air.

A few snowflakes tumble out of the sky. I pull back my mitten and glance at my watch. I know it will be completely dark by 4:00 o'clock. It's already almost 3:00 and I can tell the gloom is settling.

Time to head back. I cut into a speed turn, sending snow flying at high as my hand. I throw my weight into my strides and cut back across my tracks.

Other than the quiet shoooosh-sh-sh-sh, the silence is absolute.