Matt Liere: The ice whisperer
The pole-mounted LED’s staged around the pond’s perimeter were overwhelmingly bright – the source, I realized, of the mysterious, nighttime glow seen from our house below.
The excessive illumination allowed Daman Hagerott to put his final touches on the ice, chipping and filing away at seemingly insignificant ice-bumps with a heavy steel pike, using a squeegee and water to finish it smooth.
“This is one of the most important steps,” he explained, working the pike forward in short, controlled strokes.
“Cindy likes to clean and go, but there’s a lot more to it than that. If you rush and don’t take care of the slag on the edges, the puck becomes unpredictable and will launch out of the rink and disappear,” he said, gesturing at the piles of snow accumulation outside.
“Then you have to dig, or wait for spring to find ‘em.”
The Hagerott’s live just up the hill from us – close enough to remind us we actually have neighbors in the country, but not so close that streaking naked through my front yard unseen was beyond possibility. Not that I do this.
Holidays were typically our only interaction – a drop-and-run of baked goods on each other’s respective doorsteps, a gesture that demonstrated “neighborly goodwill with boundaries.” This year, however, our procrastination delivering cookies caught the Hagerotts at home on Christmas Eve, and we were invited in for hot drinks and snacks.
Daman remained seated, nursing a bruised knee with an ice pack as Jael, his oldest daughter, wearing only jogging shorts and a thin t-shirt, collected the Antarctic expedition gear we’d donned for the 5-minute trek up the driveway.
Marcus, the oldest son, sat quietly by the fire sipping a microbrew, while Daman’s wife, Cindy, made preparations in the kitchen. The cheery smile marking her arrival was overshadowed by the swollen, blackened tissue surrounding her left eye.
“I know,” she said, noting our surprise. “It looks bad, but you should have seen it two weeks ago. Self-inflicted. Fell on the ice.” Her smile widened.
I suggested a trip to warmer climes, mentioning our recent escape from the winter blues to Cabo. They seemed unimpressed.
“No, this is our favorite season,” Daman claimed. “We look forward to the months between November and February more than any other time of year. Come up tomorrow and I’ll show you why.”
Led by their two dogs, Comet and Max, their devotion to winter was evident once we reach the end of the well-packed trail behind the house.
Spanning 100-feet long and 50-feet wide sat a beautifully groomed ice-pond dug into the earth’s natural contours, complete with hockey goals and powered lighting for 24/7 play.
A converted tractor for clearing and scraping sat off to the side next to a wide assortment of hand tools used to sculpt and maintain the frozen surface. Daman grabbed a bladed snow shovel and began a walk across the length of the pond, pushing remnants of tractor scrapings to the far end. He turned, picked up the next line, and walked back before talking.
“You gotta clean this quick or else it will freeze right where it sits,” he said. “Then you’ll have to start over.” He talked fast, with authority, a carryover from his day job as an associate professor at Whitworth University. I asked how long he’s been making ice, and he stopped for a moment, leaning on the handle before answering.
“Since 1995, I think, but not always in this location,” he said, resuming his task. “The original was by the cross-country track near the road, but we moved down here to make it bigger.”
He stopped for a moment and tapped the ice with his cleats. “This ice has a history. It takes some work to make it right, but the payoff is big. When the four kids are all home, it makes for great family time. We all skate; we’re all together; we all have fun. No place I’d rather be.”
“Cross country track?” I queried. “For running?
“No, for skiing,” he clarified. “Jael and Cindy love to strap on skis and circle around the property. It’s a great way to get moving and watch wildlife in the winter stillness. We had a moose come through last year during an impromptu hockey game.
“Sometimes, when the kids are home and feel adventurous, they skin up and climb Mt. Spokane, then ski down, then repeat. Make a day of it.” He paused to take a breath before continuing. “Your boy plays hockey, right? Bring him up to skate tonight while the kids are still around. Always nice to have someone take advantage of the ice.”
Before answering, he added, “We play at 7 sharp. Be here by 6.”
My son, Walker, and his buddy, Carson, both players for the Spokane Jr. Chiefs, gathered their gear and trudged down the path toward the pond. Their mouths dropped as the ice came into view.
“Cool!” they chimed in unison. “You need to build one of these, Dad,” Walker added.
Daman approached and introduced himself before handing each boy a shovel. “I just scraped the ice, now we’ve got to clean it up. Like this,” he said, pushing off from the side and heading down the ice.
Years of teaching and coaching soccer gave him a strong edge of authority and the boys snapped-to, following his lead. He doled out rapid orders and motivational tips, constantly making adjustments to the boys’ technique, enforcing a “work to play” requirement.
I was both appreciative and envious of the response he commanded from the kids.
“Looks like a lot of work,” I commented, watching him drag out several lengths of red garden hose, which were quickly attached to a nearby hydrant. Daman shrugged as he flaked the hose out over the cleaned surface of the ice before turning it on.
“It can be, but I’d rather be out doing this than working out in some gym. The ice allows me to remain outside all day, catch up on my thoughts, solve mental problems.”
He walked half-circle patterns with the water stream, applying a specific amount of water in each pass, working his way toward the center, controlling flow and hose, simultaneously. Too much and the water would run and freeze unevenly; too little and the ice would become flaky.
“It’s easy to lose track of time out here,: he continued. “I’ve found myself messing around till 3 a.m. before. It can be a bit of a religious experience – very calming and peaceful – working the ice. Know what I mean?”
I thought I might, but remained silent.
“I gotta tell you, though,” he continued, “ya’ll made my day coming up here. It is a lot more fun taking care of ice when there’s someone to appreciate it.”
Light bounced off the glassy surface as the dogs exited the ice with a couple of sharp, warning cracks of the sticks. Breena, the youngest Hagerott girl, had shown up with her significant other, Oday, for a game of boys against girls. Marcus had left for home in Redmond, but my wife and daughter ventured up from the house to see what the hubbub was about, and we all settled into makeshift chairs in the snowbank to watch neighbors play.
Daman, diligent to the end, finished some last minute touches with the pike before skating to center to begin the game.
From my vantage point I could see the grins – all of them – of those that came to help, work and play on a secluded ice rink in the sticks of north Spokane. The Ice Whisperer caught my stare and threw a quick thumbs up my direction just before the puck dropped.