Dec. 9th, 2005 09:46 am
Glaciology
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muckefuckThe lake was beautiful this morning--and surprising.
I walked under the LSD viaduct at Argyle and out to the shore, following almost exactly the same route I did late Saturday night. The snow was deeper in the fields than that time, but at least crews had had an opportunity to plow the paths. The sun was just about to climb above the thick band of clouds which has been girdling the horizon every sunny day for the past couple weeks and bits of escaping sunshine were glinting off the waves. I turned to look northward where last Saturday the whitecaps had been particularly formidable.
To my astonishment, it looked like someone had dropped several huge stone blocks into the water just past the retaining wall. The smallest one was the size of a Buick--and not a one of them had been there less than a week ago. I had to walk closer to convince myself that they were really composed of snow and ice; the resemblance to beige-striated limestone was really uncanny. Their tops were covered with what looked like fragments of shattered ice-shelf, heaped up like so much broken glass, cemented together with dirty spray, and frosted here and there with new-fallen snow.
Watching the waves smash against them, it was difficult to tell if the net effect was erosion or deposition. Sure, some parts of them looked quite worn away--one had an ice-bridge as long and shallow as a man's body connected two deeply-sculpted lobes. But I watched as waves channeled through the clefts rose until they spilled over levee-like barriers and deposited fist-sized and smaller chunks of ice on the backsides of the ice-berms. I felt I could watch them for hours still not be sure if they were growing or shrinking.
Unfortunately, I didn't have the time; work called, my ear ached from the cold, and I wanted to get off the plain of snow before the sun broke through and blinded me with its glare.
I walked under the LSD viaduct at Argyle and out to the shore, following almost exactly the same route I did late Saturday night. The snow was deeper in the fields than that time, but at least crews had had an opportunity to plow the paths. The sun was just about to climb above the thick band of clouds which has been girdling the horizon every sunny day for the past couple weeks and bits of escaping sunshine were glinting off the waves. I turned to look northward where last Saturday the whitecaps had been particularly formidable.
To my astonishment, it looked like someone had dropped several huge stone blocks into the water just past the retaining wall. The smallest one was the size of a Buick--and not a one of them had been there less than a week ago. I had to walk closer to convince myself that they were really composed of snow and ice; the resemblance to beige-striated limestone was really uncanny. Their tops were covered with what looked like fragments of shattered ice-shelf, heaped up like so much broken glass, cemented together with dirty spray, and frosted here and there with new-fallen snow.
Watching the waves smash against them, it was difficult to tell if the net effect was erosion or deposition. Sure, some parts of them looked quite worn away--one had an ice-bridge as long and shallow as a man's body connected two deeply-sculpted lobes. But I watched as waves channeled through the clefts rose until they spilled over levee-like barriers and deposited fist-sized and smaller chunks of ice on the backsides of the ice-berms. I felt I could watch them for hours still not be sure if they were growing or shrinking.
Unfortunately, I didn't have the time; work called, my ear ached from the cold, and I wanted to get off the plain of snow before the sun broke through and blinded me with its glare.
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Helpful tip: Saturday night, I had three or four bourbons before walking to the Lake. [That's gay bar bourbons, so they would convert to two at home--or even just one if your bartender pours Jesuit strength.] But the time I got to the water, I didn't notice the cold at all.