I remember once cross country skiing with my Dad along the Manitowish river flowage above Fishtrap Dam, near the DNR canoe campsites. A beautiful place in winter, by the way, if you like making your own trail from the dam parking lot. Or from my house, if you want to come visit.
I remember it was sunny and still, but I can't remember how cold it was. Dad had stopped for one of his frequent cigarette breaks. I remember we were looking at the aged ruins of stumps and trees sticking up from the flowage. Everything was absolutely still and remote. There was nothing in it for us-nothing human. Nothing pretty. And yet it was beautiful. One of us, I don't know which one, called it a terrible beauty. We were awed by what we saw. Time opened up its mystery for a moment-and then we closed it up (unable to bear it very long?)
Moments like this can't be forced, and any time we try to make them happen, they fail. They only come out of the corner of your eye, to steal a Roger Waters line. Silent sports, in my view, just put us in the place where they might happen. But live long enough that loved ones die, and the terrible comes looking for you.
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