Hello Stranger,
It’s -20°C
outside and according to the weather broadcast it “feels like -28°C”. This must be the coldest I’ve ever been. My
body is wrapped in so many layers that looking down requires a real effort from
my neck muscles. I’m trying to shape a handful of snow into a ball. The powder-like
consistence is so dry, it breaks and runs away through my fingers, forming a
scoop on my boots instead. No chance to build a snowman. Any other outside
activities are limited by the weather, the fast sunset and my inability to cope
with these temperatures. But there are about 12.000 lakes crossing the state of
Minnesota and their cold whisper traps and allures you to exploit what’s out
there beyond the snow.
 |
| Lake Minnetonka |
I’m standing on the bank of Lake Minnetonka
wondering if crossing its waters on foot would be a good idea. There is barely
any water in sight. The surface is covered by a thick layer of ice. The view is
absolutely perfect. The lake is not part of the ground one can step on, it has
become a part of the horizon, merging deceitfully with the grey sky. The entire
water landscape of Minnesota seems to have been wiped out by a clean white
sheet of nothingness. It’s like someone has pressed DELETE and has presented me with a great empty canvas to play with.
I’ve stepped on a frozen lake once but I’m
having trouble recalling my courage. My brain has selected the channel playing
horrific scenarios of ice breaking and people falling into the depths of frozen
tongues. Hesitantly I let my toes test the safeness of the white coat. I’m keeping
my eyes focused on the big trucks parked on the ice ahead. A lonesome little
house is smoking in the middle of the lake. It’s one of these fish huts nested
on it temporarily for ice fishing. I’m overwhelmed by the wish to peak through
the sweaty window pane and see if there is an old man kneeling over a hole
he’s drilled in the ice.
 |
| Ice fishing hut |
The perfect surface of the frozen lake makes me
want to run like a child – without the feeling of boundaries, really fast
towards the endless horizon that has dipped its corners into the edge of the sleeping
waters. I run until my lungs have been filled with so much cold air, I have to stop
and breathe into my scarf. I run in circles and watch my steps tattoo a trail
into the comfortable skin of the snow. Undisturbed and silent, the scenery
responds to my intrusion with nothing but tiny echo dying in the naked branches
of the shore trees. Twisted and crooked into poses, the sculptures of the only
plants that have survived the kiss of winter tell the stories about the severity
and the beauty of the North. Nothing escapes its frosty hug. Its presence
transforms the buzz of life into an endless WHITE
whisper.
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