Two People, One Frozen Morning

By Maren Hollis, Fresh Coast Magazine

I had heard of the Order of the Great Fifth Sea long before I met any of its members. Most people along this stretch of the Wisconsin coast have. The Order maintains a small Chapter House near Rawley Point, tucked behind the dunes and marked only by a weathered placard that seems designed to raise more questions than it answers. They are not secretive exactly. They simply go about their work without much interest in whether anyone is watching.

Their members study the lakes in ways that feel half scientific and half ceremonial. They take measurements with the seriousness of hydrologists but talk about the shoreline the way some people talk about family stories. They keep handwritten ledgers, maps inked by hand, and a stubborn belief that listening to the coast is an actual method, not a metaphor. They appear on solstice mornings, after storms, when the wind shifts direction, and whenever the lake begins acting like it has something to say. They record what they find. Then they return the next day.

When Fresh Coast Magazine asked me to follow two of their winter field volunteers on a shoreline survey of ice formations, I was told the assignment would be quiet and mostly observational. I was also told to wear layers, bring a thermos, and expect conversations that may not resemble conversations. The Order has a rhythm. Outsiders are welcome to witness it, as long as we understand we may not understand everything.

My guides were Silas Dunmore and Nora Pettigrew. The briefing packet offered only the basics. Silas had been with the Order a long time. Nora had arrived after a library job was cut and stayed because she found the shoreline agreeable. They worked well together, though neither would mention it. The packet also warned that silence should not be interpreted. The Order considers silence an important part of listening to what the shoreline is doing.

With that in mind, I found myself riding north before sunrise in a vintage Land Rover that seemed like an unofficial member of the Order. We turned into the Point Beach State Forest access road as the sky shifted from black to a careful gray.

The engine sighed. The doors opened. And the day began.

The Land Rover Series IIA settled into the pullout with a long tired groan. Its headlights swept across the pines and caught early snow drifting down. The vehicle shuddered before relaxing into a mechanical silence that suggested it had done this many times.

Silas stepped out first. He planted his boots in the snow and rolled his shoulders in a way that made the forest seem aware of him. At fifty-two, he moved with a practical steadiness. He gave the Rover’s fender an approving pat, then swung his overfilled pack onto his shoulder.

Nora climbed out with far less ceremony. She closed the door carefully, adjusted her scarf, and opened a notebook that seemed to know its purpose. Twenty-nine and quiet, she had a way of standing that suggested she had time for details.

I followed them into the woods. Snow accepted our footsteps without complaint. The pines gathered around us like an audience settling in. Chickadees darted between branches with the busy confidence of creatures who have never questioned their place in the world. A squirrel watched us from a low limb, decided we were not bringing food, and left.

Silas paused next to a shallow track in the snow. He crouched, inspected it, and brushed the surface lightly. His breath rose in a faint cloud.
Nora studied the same track and wrote a brief note, the kind that doesn’t require further explanation. Silas nodded as if she had spoken.

Snow thickened. Wind moved through the trees in soft strands. A low rumble reached us from somewhere ahead. Silas looked toward the sound. Nora listened and nodded.

The lake had announced itself.

We walked until the forest released us onto a wide frozen beach. Light spread across the snow in a muted glow. Wind greeted us with sudden force. The lake shifted under unstable ice plates that rose and fell like slow breath. Shelf ice stacked itself in uneven layers that looked as though someone had tried arranging them and then given up halfway.

And scattered along the shoreline were the ice volcanoes.

They stood in a crooked field of shapes. Some small and rounded. Others tall with narrow vents. One towered above the rest with grooves carved by wind. A thin plume drifted from its top. The beach looked as if the lake had been experimenting overnight.

Silas approached the largest formation with care. Nora followed, her boots tracing an intentional path. I stayed close enough to observe but far enough not to interfere. The cone pulsed beneath us. A deep vibration spread under the snow.

Silas placed a hand on the surface. “Feels unsettled this morning.”

Nora watched the base. “The cycle is stronger.”

The next pulse arrived with more force. A column of half-frozen water burst out and scattered in brittle fragments. Several clung to Silas’s coat like decoration. Nora stepped back just far enough to keep her notes clean. I wiped a few shards off my sleeve.

Silas examined the shards on his coat. “Energetic.”

“The temperature dropped again,” she said.

“That explains it.”

“It explains most things.”

We continued along the shoreline. A smaller cone produced a thin whistle that wavered with the wind. Silas slowed. Nora crouched near the vent. The cone made one final indecisive note and then folded gently inward. A small sigh of steam drifted up. Nora sketched the collapsed shape. I watched her pencil move quickly, certain and practiced.

A gull landed on another cone and eyed the vent as though inspecting property. The cone shuddered. The gull leaped away with clear irritation and flew toward the lake, still complaining.

Farther along, a sideways jet from a cone caught Silas on the knee. He brushed at it even though brushing did not help. Nora added another line to her notes. I pulled my hat lower as the wind sharpened.

The sky grew heavier. Silas and Nora exchanged a glance that meant we had reached the point where staying longer would only repeat the same observations in worse conditions.

We turned back toward the forest.

Inside the woods, the air settled. Snow fell straight and slow. A woodpecker tapped at a hollow trunk in a rhythm that did not seem intentional. Silas listened with interest. Nora considered it and kept walking. I found myself doing the same.

Our earlier footprints had disappeared. The forest preferred a clean record.

The Land Rover waited under a new drift of snow. Silas wiped the windshield with broad movements. Nora cleared her window with careful arcs. I brushed off the mirrors and felt snow slide down my sleeve.

We climbed inside. The heater rumbled. The windows fogged and slowly began to clear. Snow tapped lightly on the roof.

Silas tapped the steering wheel. “Good morning’s work.”

Nora reviewed her notes. “Plenty to report.”

Silas eased the Rover onto the road. “Lake behaved itself.”

She closed her notebook. “It tolerated us.”

As we drove out, the storm closed behind us. Somewhere along the shoreline the cones reorganized themselves, rising or collapsing according to whatever impulse moves the lake in winter. They would not look the same the next day.

Most people will never stand beside an ice volcano. They will not feel the pulse underfoot or watch a cone whistle and then retreat from its own enthusiasm. They will never see one slump politely as though excusing itself. But Silas and Nora did, and for one morning the lake allowed me to stand with them.

Winter has moods along Lake Michigan. Some stern. Some shy. Some quietly amused that anyone bothered to notice.

This was one of those mornings. A day of gentle absurdities and small revelations. Three people walking a frozen shoreline with no expectation of spectacle and finding something better. The cones did what they wanted. The lake continued its endless rearranging. Silas and Nora wrote down what they could, and I tried to keep up.

Sometimes that is enough for a story. Sometimes that is the whole point.