Lake Winnipeg's magic must be saved

I grew up along the shores of Lake Winnipeg and every spring I worry about this lake that I love. I see the news stories of its possible demise and I find myself hoping that over the winter something has changed. Maybe, along with the ice, the lake has somehow managed to shrug off the pollution, scrub itself clean of algae blooms and patch up its own crumbling banks. Or maybe everyone, whether or not they believe the science, will decide that it's time to treat this lake with more respect. Because this lake and everything around it is magical.

When I was a child I loved to listen to people tell stories. "The reason we have trouble sleeping when there is a full moon is because our ancestors used to hunt by the light of the full moon," said my aunt, sharing another bit of wisdom passed down from her mother, my grandmother, who had died when I was five years old. And I envisioned ancestors tracking animals in the soft light of the very same moon that was now lighting our path home along the shores of Lake Winnipeg. It was enchanting.

The same aunt once admonished me for pointing across the lake to far away Devil Island. "Never point at it, it's bad luck." It was fascinating to think the island, which sometimes disappeared in fog and seemed to move closer on clear days, could impact my fate. After that, when Lake Winnipeg rose to engulf the beach below our house, I would often dream about the island floating closer and closer to our home.

As I grew up, I started to see patterns, irresistible things that happened in different weather conditions or at certain times of the year. In the spring, I wasn't surprised to see a pristine Lake Winnipeg, clear of all ice in the evening, but then wake up the next morning to a strong north wind and a beach clogged with so much ice it resembled the Arctic ice floes I saw in books. Later in the spring, my sisters and I knew the exact spot on the sand cliffs above the beach where a patch of pink lady's slippers would bloom once a year. It didn't matter that we had experienced these types of things over and over, that we now had more understanding of nature — it was still magical.

I eventually moved to Winnipeg, went to university, completed a degree in geography. I learned about short-term weather and long-term climate change. I learned about the land in northern Manitoba springing up like a sponge, causing Lake Winnipeg to slowly move south as the glacier ice melts. Understanding the science behind the changing climate and water levels didn't diminish my awe of the lake's power. Thinking about how long the lake had been there and what it had lived through while maintaining its irresistible beauty still captivated me.

Growing up, collecting knowledge and understanding the science behind nature does not have to remove the magic; these things can enhance it. Because learning, whether it's from stories, observation, experience or school, is all magical, too. And maybe it's not just the science, but the kind of magic we see and feel when we walk its shores or swim its waters, that will help us all decide that we must save Lake Winnipeg.

Now, whenever I have trouble sleeping, I still pull back the curtain and search for the full moon. Whether I see it or not, I can't help but think of my hunting ancestors. And even though I now know it only shines because of the sun's reflection and it changes as the Earth rotates and revolves, I can't help but think about how it must be shimmering on Lake Winnipeg, and I'm spellbound.

Louella Lester is a Winnipeg poet and writer.