Each February a dark steel oil drum is set on the frozen river
over mid-stream and there it sits through the frozen sub-arctic
night. Bets are made as to the day, the hour and the minute
as to when the barrel will break through the ice at winter’s end.
Driving over the bridge the barrel is visible to drivers and the
odd brave pedestrian as a tiny speck on the ice. Up stream,
by the end of April, we hear news of the river break-up as southern
snow melts and swells the Athabasca heaving seven foot thick
ice slabs to the river’s edge. Last winter I counted my winnings
my picture was in the local paper holding a handful of twenties
to the wind like some Vegas high roller. I bought my daughter
a new bicycle. Some winters past, at a Spring garage sale,
after the divorce, the bike sold for a few dollars.
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