The Bolshevik husky
How do you explain the rules of capitalism to a dog? That’s the question we were pondering the day the river stopped. We’ve been watching it for weeks. With the recent cold spell, the passing ice pans turned to chunks, and by Saturday there were sheets as big as tennis courts drifting past. In the afternoon, the ice shelf began to rise as water oozed beneath it. We guessed the river had jammed somewhere below us and the water was backing up. We took a quick ski down to take a look but Neil bust a ski through into the seeping green slush and so we scooted back, faster and faster, the ice popping and buckling beneath us. By dark, we could hear a continuous rumble as the moving ice sheets ground against the edges. We ran out in parkas, pyjamas and headlamps to peer at the slow, rumbling mass of jagged ice. At 30 below our breathing formed a fog of ice crystals in the beams, so we held our breath and listened. I wish I’d recorded the sound. Imagine a freight tra...
