Singing ice, and other wonders of the forest

I love rural signage.

What would the forest-sign divination for this combination be? Throw caution to the wind in your upcoming choice? Turn that caution upsidedown, the way is clearly marked?

I love the mental images, too, raised by traffic-management signage when I know the nearest humans are miles and miles away. Turkeys: take note. Coyotes: yield at the rotary. Bears: do what you like.

So far, New Hampshire can’t beat Vermont-the-Understate, but it’s pretty good.

Gilly and I hiked the first true cold today (a 20 degree start falling with intense speed, zooming in on 3 degrees now) and discovered all the water in Pisgah State Park solidifying before our eyes.

We could practically watch the ice form.

The beaver lodges have frozen in, and work was halted on projects underway:

Lily Pond was singing.

I have heard ice say many things over the years: crashes, skitters, snaps, cracks, pops, barks, a whole vocabulary of cold.

In spite of years spent wandering around aimlessly in forests looking at stuff and listening to things, though, I have never heard it make a sound identical to an arrow singing through the air – only, deafening – until today.

I did not get video, alas, because at first I thought some drunk with a crossbow was trying to kill Gilly and started hustling us out of there, and then I was spellbound and forgot.

But it sounded like this, or this.

Gorgeous.

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