The ice is restless this evening — the tinsel crackle of it beneath my boots, sharp snaps, alien whistles, and the long, low thunder-rumble of something deeper. Alone in the fading light, the ice sings a song of winter’s cold.
Some winters, the ice is more talkative than others. In the winter of 1887, for instance, the ice was a bellowing monster, so much cracking and groaning that Bayfield residents thought the world was coming apart beneath them. An item in The Press on January 15th of that year noted: “Several times during the past month, the residents of Bayfield have experienced shocks supposed by many to be genuine earthquake tremors. [The] severest to date occurred Tuesday afternoon and was so severe as to be felt in all parts of town. Strong buildings trembled perceptibly and considerable alarm was manifest by those residing near the shore. The cause of these shocks is due to the expansion of ice between the mainland and the island, but why they should be so much more frequent than ever before since the town was settled is a conundrum that puzzles the old inhabitants.”
It is good to have a conundrum or two to ponder on winter evenings, something that peers over the horizons of your mind as you walk on the ice. All the answers in the world will not keep your heart from jumping into your throat when that “WHOOMP!” comes sounding like the bottom floor of the world is dropping out from under your boots.
You shuffle back to solid ground, chastened once again for your foolish belief that the world is solid beneath your feet. Each step on the winter ice is a reminder of the rickety foundations of our lives on this planet and the unfathomable force of the powers within it. All the way home, your heart is pounding in your ears, a sound not unlike the low rumble of the ice.
— Jeff Rennicke (all photography by the author unless otherwise noted.)