By John Forrest
Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.
~From the movie An Affair to Remember
In the frigid glow of dawn, seated on stumps around the remains of the previous night's bonfire, we laced on our skates. Then we sat hunched, toques pulled low over our ears, warming our numbed fingers above the embers, awaiting sunrise.
Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.
~From the movie An Affair to Remember
In the frigid glow of dawn, seated on stumps around the remains of the previous night's bonfire, we laced on our skates. Then we sat hunched, toques pulled low over our ears, warming our numbed fingers above the embers, awaiting sunrise.
The Credit River emptied into Lake Ontario just west of Toronto. In the 1960s, it froze solid. Parks and Recreation staff plowed the snow from its surface and re-flooded it nightly, creating a public skating rink that stretched for miles. A mecca for pleasure skaters and shinny players of all ages, who came to enjoy nature's beauty and bounty. Fires were built along the banks to warm them and coloured lights were strung from shore to shore to add ambiance at night. Thousands spent their afternoons and evenings enjoying the ice.
This was our time. We were "the dawn patrol."
As the sun began to creep above the horizon, my friend Bill and I would slip our hands into our hockey gloves, take up our sticks and abandon the fire. Clumping our way through the bulrushes and shell ice to the river's edge we paused, poised for the moment. Then the first golden rays would strike, unveiling an unblemished sheet of glistening blue-white ice, stretching farther than our eyes could see. The invitation to fly on our booted blades of silver steel had been issued.
A few short strokes to test balance and edge, then with longer more powerful strides, our blades began carving the virgin ice, leaving a trail of diamond chips in our wake. No boards to confine us, no blue lines to restrain us; we challenged imaginary opponents, deking them with our best moves, turning, spinning, stopping, starting and winning every time.
The sub-zero nights made river ice very hard and this, combined with the water flowing just a foot beneath our skates, created a distinct hollow sound each time our blades cut into it. We were breathing hard now as the frigid air tugged at our lungs, but we warmed to the task.
The first puck dropped. It was game on. No coaches, no officials and no line-changes, just the two of us, skating side by side, exchanging short passes, getting the feel. Then, "Go Bill!" and I would fire a long lead pass challenging him to snare it. He in turn would test my mettle. If we missed a few, no matter — our rink was endless and our energy boundless. We had but one rule. Follow the fresh ice.
Full sunlight now and the reflection from the gleaming surface made our eyes water as we skated leisurely up river, on patrol, still sliding passes, backhand, forehand, sharp or soft and then suddenly, "Dump and chase!" Bill firing the puck straight up river and the race was on. Impossibly, that skittering black disk seemed to gain speed, as with heads down, legs driving and sticks extended, we vied to be first to snare it.
Crack! The sound of a shot? No, just ice and sunlight interacting, and magically a fissure appeared in our rink. A two-inch wide crack opened at our feet and ran from shore to shore. It was the first of many that would form as the day unfolded, and one of the hazards of river skating. We glided on, passing the central bonfire area where the general public would soon begin to intrude on our sanctuary.
Then in the distance we saw a familiar figure moving rapidly toward us: a fellow pathfinder who shared our passion, but in a different way. Hunched forward, arms clasped behind his back, balanced on incredibly long blades, a speed skater approached. Freed from the endless circles and crossovers of competition, his powerful legs drove him forward at remarkable speed and he flew past us. We lifted our sticks in salute; he nodded without breaking form. He would return and pass us again before we reached our goal.
Our destination was the end of the fresh ice. It was our passion to leave our mark from beginning to end of that wonderful rink and we always did. We knew during our downriver return, as we added to the cuts and curves we had already made, that the magic spell of being first comers, of it being our ice and ours alone, would be soon broken.
The families were gathering near the fires, preparing to join us, and groups of shinny players were starting pickup games. We would play in several as we trekked back downriver.
When we reached our starting point we had to search to find our boots, now mixed amongst scores of other pairs, left by those who came later. As we sat warming them over the fire, readying them to accept our tingling toes, we often got strange "quitting so soon?" comments or looks from those just lacing up. Bill and I would just smile, hang our skates on our sticks and shoulder them for the walk home.
Little did they know! We would return on the morrow, in the darkest hour, to repeat our ritual. We were "the dawn patrol."
This was our time. We were "the dawn patrol."
As the sun began to creep above the horizon, my friend Bill and I would slip our hands into our hockey gloves, take up our sticks and abandon the fire. Clumping our way through the bulrushes and shell ice to the river's edge we paused, poised for the moment. Then the first golden rays would strike, unveiling an unblemished sheet of glistening blue-white ice, stretching farther than our eyes could see. The invitation to fly on our booted blades of silver steel had been issued.
A few short strokes to test balance and edge, then with longer more powerful strides, our blades began carving the virgin ice, leaving a trail of diamond chips in our wake. No boards to confine us, no blue lines to restrain us; we challenged imaginary opponents, deking them with our best moves, turning, spinning, stopping, starting and winning every time.
The sub-zero nights made river ice very hard and this, combined with the water flowing just a foot beneath our skates, created a distinct hollow sound each time our blades cut into it. We were breathing hard now as the frigid air tugged at our lungs, but we warmed to the task.
The first puck dropped. It was game on. No coaches, no officials and no line-changes, just the two of us, skating side by side, exchanging short passes, getting the feel. Then, "Go Bill!" and I would fire a long lead pass challenging him to snare it. He in turn would test my mettle. If we missed a few, no matter — our rink was endless and our energy boundless. We had but one rule. Follow the fresh ice.
Full sunlight now and the reflection from the gleaming surface made our eyes water as we skated leisurely up river, on patrol, still sliding passes, backhand, forehand, sharp or soft and then suddenly, "Dump and chase!" Bill firing the puck straight up river and the race was on. Impossibly, that skittering black disk seemed to gain speed, as with heads down, legs driving and sticks extended, we vied to be first to snare it.
Crack! The sound of a shot? No, just ice and sunlight interacting, and magically a fissure appeared in our rink. A two-inch wide crack opened at our feet and ran from shore to shore. It was the first of many that would form as the day unfolded, and one of the hazards of river skating. We glided on, passing the central bonfire area where the general public would soon begin to intrude on our sanctuary.
Then in the distance we saw a familiar figure moving rapidly toward us: a fellow pathfinder who shared our passion, but in a different way. Hunched forward, arms clasped behind his back, balanced on incredibly long blades, a speed skater approached. Freed from the endless circles and crossovers of competition, his powerful legs drove him forward at remarkable speed and he flew past us. We lifted our sticks in salute; he nodded without breaking form. He would return and pass us again before we reached our goal.
Our destination was the end of the fresh ice. It was our passion to leave our mark from beginning to end of that wonderful rink and we always did. We knew during our downriver return, as we added to the cuts and curves we had already made, that the magic spell of being first comers, of it being our ice and ours alone, would be soon broken.
The families were gathering near the fires, preparing to join us, and groups of shinny players were starting pickup games. We would play in several as we trekked back downriver.
When we reached our starting point we had to search to find our boots, now mixed amongst scores of other pairs, left by those who came later. As we sat warming them over the fire, readying them to accept our tingling toes, we often got strange "quitting so soon?" comments or looks from those just lacing up. Bill and I would just smile, hang our skates on our sticks and shoulder them for the walk home.
Little did they know! We would return on the morrow, in the darkest hour, to repeat our ritual. We were "the dawn patrol."
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