Pandemic notwithstanding, this has been one of the loveliest winters in Montreal, weatherwise, that I can remember. We've had two months of velvety snow, temperatures mostly in the 10s or 20s, lots of bright sun and blue skies, and essentially no rain. That's the crucial difference: when the weather alternates between freezing and thawing, with periods of rain, the whole city turns to ice -- and that's become normal in recent years, thanks to the changing climate. But not this year. I've been out for long brisk walks in the park every single day, which has helped save my sanity during these longest months of winter confinement, as well as keeping me in somewhat decent shape. I've also seen a lot.
The city provides two hockey rinks, so the thwack of slapshots and sticks hitting the boards is a constant rhythm, and the players somehow work out a system to rotate both older players and kids on and off the ice so that the game doesn't exceed a certain number of people, and everyone gets a chance to play. As I draw closer, I can also hear the decisive slicing of their blades: sprinting, changing direction, pivoting to a rapid stop.
To help provide recreation for people stuck in the city, the park service has also laid out meticulously groomed cross-country ski trails, and they're being used all day long, though the trails never seem crowded. It's fantastic, and gets my former-downhill-skier blood excited; if we could count on the weather in future years we'd consider investing in equipment.
But I've never seen so many people free-skating on the lake: some weekend days it looks like the whole city has shown up. I walked to the eastern side of the park on a less-crowded weekday, and stood on a high bank above the frozen surface, watching as the skaters slowly made their way up and down the serpentine lake. It was a dreamy kind of dance, seen from an aerial perch, and somehow the feeling encapsulated how I have felt much of this year: a lone observer, standing off to one side, as others, mostly younger people, engage in a life I remember but in which I don't participate. That doesn't make it less beautiful, but it's melancholy too. I gave my skates away to a young neighbor this year -- it's not the pandemic that keeps me off the ice, though those crowds don't appeal: it's being long out of practice, and the accompanying fear of breaking my wrists, which would be a disaster for me!
The dog park is another scene entirely: manic and chaotic, with a lot of individual characters, both canine and human, who I've come to recognize. At dusk it seems almost Bruegelesque, with dark shapes moving against the snow, but in the sunlight there's an ever-changing tableau of leaping and barking, sniffing and chasing, while the owners chat with each other, consult their cell phones, throw the occasional ball, or sit alone on the tops of picnic tables at the far periphery, capturing a few precious moments of solitude while their charge runs free. The purebred dogs all have their distinctive attitudes: some haughty and proud, others friendly to a fault. The well-trained dogs obey their owner's commands to heel or sit, and come when they're called. the popular huskies and malamuts look like they've just gotten off a sled run, while standard poodles arrive in expensive tailored coats, and little lap dogs in their winter booties. Meanwhile the eager mutts just get on with playing as hard as they can.
Today, in another part of the park, I heard someone whistling in the distance, as if calling a dog, but when I got closer I saw it was a man with a bag of seed or breadcrumbs, whistling to call the squirrels, and sure enough, there were dozens around him on the snow and climbing down out of the trees.
And I admit I wondered: if I still lived here when I was really elderly, or really alone, would I turn into an old lady who wanders through the park, feeding the squirrels?
