A Winter River

From a mountain in northeastern China, the River Hun runs downward, coiling freely through countryside until it arrives in the city of Shenyang. Through Shenyang, the river’s flow is slow, its progress checked. Concrete hems it in, car parks and business parks encroach out onto the river, changing its course. Countless bridges cross. There are weirs and lock gates, cameras and monitoring stations. The River Hun is, according to the authorities, the ‘axis by which Shenyang will achieve superior development’. Economic progress must be extracted from the river and, as part of this, the river is dammed. Fish float belly-up and rubbish lines the banks. But the river is not quite damned: one morning there is hope. The river has completely frozen over.

The morning of the freeze there is beeverish activity on the river. What was yesterday a moving body of water is today as hard as stone. Groups of sweepers with brooms walk upon the ice, brushing away the snow which has come with the overnight freeze. They work methodically. As one walks, two are on his flanks. The leader of this formation makes an oval-shaped track, brushing snow to the left and right which makes a narrow corridor of ice. His companions further his work, sweeping his piles of snow to the sides which gradually makes this corridor wider. Gradually over the morning an oval-shaped track of ice is formed on the frozen river.

Then nothing. The ice is left overnight. It is a hard night, the stars all twinkling, the temperature down at the extremes. The following morning is a perfect one. A sun as bright as venus reflects off the ice with dazzling power.

But the preparation is not complete. The same sweeps are out, doing the same job as yesterday. While yesterday’s job was creating, today’s is polishing. They round the track several times in their delta, sweeping away every mote of snow leaving the most gleaming ice, veined with blue.

As the sun rises over the tops of city buildings, the skaters arrive. They carry bags and cases, perhaps these have been stored since last winter. They sit on benches and lace up their skates. Today the only thing to be extracted from the River Hun is joy.

It carries a particular sound; the tinkle of a skate’s blade on fresh ice. There are four of them who set out together. Soon they are in a rhythmic glide around the oval-shaped circuit the sweeps have made. Hands clasped behind their backs, they are in line, in-step: as the blade of the leader’s right skate touches the ice so too the right skate of his companions behind. Their outside arms swing in unison as they change their gait into the corner. Now their legs cross, their steps become shorter, the arms move quicker, now they are back on the straight into long, rhythmic glides.

They wear woollen jumpers under body warmers, dark sunglasses tucked in beneath beanies, all have gloves and thick-looking socks rolled down over the boot of their skates. The sun is so powerfully bright that it gives the ice over which they glide a gleam, a polished brilliance.

It looks effortless but presently they stop their dance, they break formation. No more tucked bodies or swinging arms. They stand with feet parallel, still gliding, hands on thighs, bent over to catch their breath. As they begin to speak, great plumes of steam emit from their mouths. With no more effort they gradually slow, slipping around the oval course in this way for half a lap before stopping with a gentle skid.

They uncap flasks of hot water and give their appraisal to the waiting sweeps.