The forecast reads -10°F today, but it’s colder on the frozen lakes of Maine. There, the wind chill takes hold as you stand on solid ice, 8 inches thick—the only thing separating you from certain death underfoot. For several months, I found myself on the lake nearly every day, meeting and photographing these hermetic communities. The shared sense of isolation attracted me to this place and, by association, this inhospitable climate. We arose at dawn each day to sit and wait for the catch. It was the process that kept us warm; the mystery of what we could find that kept us coming back, out into that cold, ruminating quietly within the internal tundra that seemed to transport us hundreds of miles away.
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