When I Was A Rink Rat

An early winter storm has subsided and I am on my way to the local outdoor hockey rink. The bitter breeze is still pushing from the north and grainy wisps of snow dance around my heavy boots. It is the winter of 1992 here in Attawapiskat and I am bored on a grey overcast Saturday morning looking for something to do. I have my favourite hockey stick with me and a plan of practising my slap shot. There are few people out and I am looking forward to spending my time alone at the rink. A powerful wind has blown falling snow into huge drifts all around the community. Here and there I see peeked piles of snow as high as the eaves of houses.
I am expecting to do some snow shovelling at the rink. Winter storms usually fill the exposed open air rink with drifts that have to be cleared before any stick handling can start. When I arrive at the rink I am surprised that even the wooden boards are covered in a deep blanket of snow. A perimeter of chain link fencing stands in stark contrast to the fluffy snow.
I am actually excited at the prospect of snow shovelling. I am full of energy after a hearty meal of momís moose stew, buttered bread and several cups of hot tea. My plan to clear the rink of snow is based on my need for escape. As a teenager, my mind is full of anxiety and worry. Life in a poverty stricken remote First Nation certainly has its challenges. As I stare out at the daunting task ahead of me in the deep snow I know that my time here will be filled with work. It will be a very focused effort where I won't be able to worry.
I stake my hockey stick in a deep drift with the blade sticking up like a sort of flag. It is time to exchange my stick for a rusty old snow scraper that has been left behind for volunteer rink rats like me. The hard work begins. Iím bundled in layers of shirts, long underwear and jeans. All this is topped with a light parka and thin snow pants for easy mobility at the rink. Momís moose hide gloves and fur lined hat keep me warm. The snow shovelling seems a monumental task and I donít expect to do the whole rink. One shovel at a time I begin to throw snow over the boards.
I work slowly and methodically, careful not to work up a sweat. I understand very well that sweat in minus 40 below temperatures will freeze. After an hour, I have cut a single path into the snow across the short end of the rink. While resting on my shovel, my cousin Antoine Wheesk arrives with his hockey stick. Without saying much he stakes his stick next to mine and jumps in to help with another snow shovel. He is also deep in his own thoughts and the work of shovelling snow makes us forget our world for a while. Soon more teenagers arrive and after a couple of hours, a dozen hockey sticks stand in a row and waiting in the wings for us to finish the job at hand. Slowly, we are digging the rink out from under the snow.
Younger children arrive and they take advantage of the first large clearing at one end of the rink to start a small game with their friends. It is too cold to skate so they play boot hockey. The players slip and slide on the ice as they run with the puck in teams of ten players on each side.
I sit with my cousin in a soft bank of deep snow to rest and watch a chaotic game move back and forth along the ice. Our friends are still busy trying to free up centre ice but magically the rink is becoming ours again. Our frosty hot breath rises in clouds over our heads and crystals form on our hats and scarves. There is something wonderful about the peace here and Antoine and I lay back on piled snow watching the game. We have a sense of pride in seeing the fruits of our labour being enjoyed by younger boys playing.
Hours have passed and the temptation is great to join the younger ones in their fun. Sticks in hand we head out onto the cleared area of the rink and run out our last supply of energy. We glide, slide, pass, bump, jump and swirl around the rink as though we were in some kind of strange icy dance. We yell, scream, hoot and holler as we push ourselves to the limit just to get the chance to grab the puck for a minute.
Now we are wet with sweat, it is getting dark, the wind has picked up and we are pretty much exhausted. Antoine and I agree that its a good time to head home for supper. We amble back up the snow covered road passing a chunk of ice back and forth. We feel hungry, tired and yet fulfilled. I look forward to finding the rink covered in snow again tomorrow.www.underthenorthernsky.com