I am an obsessive photographer.
During the summer, I found myself staying up late four to five times a week in order to capture the sunset. When autumn arrived, and the leaves turned, I drove throughout the countryside and deep into the forests. This winter, I cannot stop photographing the ice.
On a sunny afternoon, I drove north to McGulpin Point. Standing on the shore, I saw a series of snow hills about 40 yards into the frozen lake. I hiked through the knee deep snow to reach them. The hills were 12-20 feet high. Although they looked like they were made of snow, they were in fact solid ice. I struggled to climb them, slipping and sliding down the face.
When I reached the apex, I looked out towards another row of hills 40 yards beyond the first. This time the hills were formed of jagged and broken sheets of ice that glowed an iridescent blue.
I was tempted to trek out to the jagged ice, but common sense held me back.
In the distance I could hear the ice snapping and cracking. Sheets violently burst from the lake beyond the second row. I could see the hills shifting slightly. The ice was under tremendous stress and the lake flowed freely beneath it.
I walked along the crest of the hills about a quarter-mile. Eventually I reached a place where the unfrozen water was within eye sight. Here the ice, up to a foot thick in places, bobbed and crashed. The sound of ice grinding against ice was jarring, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I turned back towards shore. About twenty yards from the beach, I found a large ice block jutting out of the snow. I bent low and captured a photograph. It was only after I got home did I discover the face hidden in the ice. A stern sentry watching over his frozen kingdom.