March can be challenging. Gray skies, occasional blizzards, the desperation to get outside despite temperatures incongruous with the sunny skies. And in northern parts of Wisconsin, early spring’s sting feels even sharper. The snowmobilers have gone home and the fishermen have yet to arrive. The roads heave and buckle as they thaw. It’s almost as if the entire landscape tells people to stay away.

On one such lonely March weekend about ten years ago, I took my three-year-old daughter out onto the frozen lake at my parent’s cabin. The snow that had blanketed the ice all winter had melted and resolidified into a wintery layer cake: ice, water, slush, with multiple inches of solid lake underneath. With an augur, I checked these ratios before we ventured onto the white expanse. Four inches of ice are required for safe walking. We had eight.

My daughter and I developed a game that only a three-year-old can love. We stomped, breaking through the skin of ice, sending sprays of slush into the air. Before we knew it our rubber boots were full of water and we had used up all the good stomping spots, which tempted us farther onto the lake. Stomp, crack, whoosh. I found a spot that was less willing to give up its gloppy interior. After planting both my feet, I put my full weight into it. The ice cracked, and I plummeted straight down.

Thankfully my dad had reiterated enough times what to do if I ever fell through the ice: arms out. I caught myself just before my head plunged into the frigid water, then dragged myself back to a sturdier stretch. “Whoops!” I said to my daughter with all the positivity necessary to hide how serious the situation had actually become. “Let’s run back to the cottage!”

By the time we returned, the shivering had consumed my entire body, and I will always remember my daughter in her bright pink coat, clomping in behind me, unaware of how close she had come to experiencing the full tragedy of March in Wisconsin.

”

After planting both my feet, I put my full weight into it. The ice cracked, and I plummeted straight down.

ERIC RASMUSSEN

In January of 2022, I was invited to participate in the “Newbie Spiel” at the Eau Claire Curling Club. It was one of those invitations that sounded fun at the time, even though I knew when the March tournament arrived, I would regret pledging a whole weekend to the sport. I had curled for a couple of seasons ten years prior, which had left a bad taste in my mouth. I had loved the ice, the activity, and the camaraderie, but I suffer from a defect that makes such endeavors difficult: I was born entirely without competitive instincts. I’ve seen specialists. There’s nothing they can do.

Still, when the time arrived, another English-teacher friend and I joined two seasoned curlers for some sliding and sweeping fun. Despite a few close-call slips and a steep re-learning curve, we even won our first match on Friday night.

On Saturday we returned to the sheets of ice, and something strange happened. I was giddy. It had been an especially difficult week for my family, during a tough month, smack dab in the middle of a uniquely challenging school year. But curling requires concentration that precludes all other thinking. Curlers must step on the ice a certain way to avoid falling. Sliding the stone requires a particular routine. Sweeping, while exhausting, delivers its own thrill. A full-speed sideways shuffle down a surface that would fell lesser athletes inspires a sense of skill and accomplishment, especially in novice competitors like myself.

Unfortunately, my team lost both of its remaining matches, but we managed to numb the pain with all-you-can-drink beer and big steaming trays of lasagna. We checked our tickets for the raffle and passed around bottles of all manner of beverages. The tournament organizers had set out buckets of ice at the end of the bar, but we mostly enjoyed our drinks warm.

This year, March isn’t any icier than normal, but for some reason, I’m noticing it more. Maybe it’s because this is the first spring since we got a dog, and my nightly walks require countless jerky spasms to regain my balance after slipping on the sidewalk. Or maybe it’s because the ice ruts on the streets near my home are deeper than ever. As much as I look forward to winter every year, at this moment, I’ve had enough. I’m ready for the ice to melt. And I know it will, soon. Just not soon enough.