High Winds

Blurred by the wind, the marram grass on the dunes of Tiscornia Park in St. Joseph, Michigan hold in the sand, and block the accumulating snow.

The patterns of sand and snow changed with the blink of an eye.

Snow Squalls

Pretty much sums up what I had to put up with while photographing the St. Joseph, Michigan lighthouse this evening. Snow squalls blew in frequently, driven by high winds off of Lake Michigan. My lens hood acted like a funnel, gathering the snow against the lens.

At times, the outer light was completely obstructed by the snow, and once or twice the dunes in the foreground were nearly invisible, covered by blowing snow.

Walking out to the outer light was the plan, but for obvious reasons, not really possible.

This is Spring?

Getting Out of French Canyon

Even though most of the snow and ice melted over the past week, deep in the shady canyons of Starved Rock State Park, ice and snow remained. French Canyon in particular, was quite difficult to access, yet, Tom R. and I managed to navigate the glazed canyon floor. Usually, I walk with one foot on each side of the flowing water, and make my way up to the main waterfall. That was impossible on this day, so clinging to a single wall was the only way to keep from slipping and falling.

A Winter Hike

Stopping to prepare a walking stick, the boys enjoy a winter afternoon on the frozen shore of Lake Michigan.

Contemplating Going Further

In the summer, Kintzele Ditch marks the halfway point of many hikes. It's a shallow creek that empties into Lake Michigan, and can be crossed easily in normal weather. In the winter, unless you don't mind immersing your feet in 33 degree water, the creek becomes a destination and turn-around point.

We decided not to proceed across the creek on this day, figuring a mile walk with wet feet in 20 degree temperatures would be uncomfortable.

Bands of Fog

Just before sunrise, the fog reflected the sunlight, turning the sky a subtle amber. The warmer air temperatures combined with snow in the low-lying field to create some patches of fog in the early morning hours.

Reaching Up

We climbed to the very top of the tallest dune in the area, to get a better view of the ice on Lake Michigan. The ice stretches for miles along the shore, but what proved to be more interesting was the view up. A deep blue sky and trees reaching for it, kept me entertained as the kids jumped around the snow on the dune.

Inside the Sugar Shack

It's March, and the days are warming a bit- that means the sap is running! It's Maple Sugar Time. Maple sap begins to run when the daytime temperatures are above freezing, and the night temperatures drop below freezing.

Walking around the Chelberg Farm this time of year, one gets a sense of how things were in the 1930's, when the Chelberg's began gathering sap to make maple syrup to sell in Chicago. The woods were full of maple trees, and with a bit of hard work, the sap could be gathered, refined, and sold for a late winter profit.

Maple syrup is strictly a North American product. More specifically, it's naturally limited to the region east of the Mississippi River, north of the Ohio River, and into Canada.

The process has been modernized, but syrup making began with the native Americans. They placed hot rocks into wooden bowls filled with sap. The water boiled out and what remained was pure maple syrup. Today, in commercial syrup production, plastic pipes and stainless steel evaporators are used to gather and reduce the sap.

The Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore's Chelberg Farm demonstrates the maple sugaring process each March during Maple Sugar Days. They explain and demonstrate how the native Americans refined the sap, as well as the more modern, 1930's methods.



Still using galvanized buckets hung from cast spiles, they gather sap from numerous sugar maple trees on the property. The sap is then transferred to the the original "sugar shack" where it is warmed over a wood-fired evaporator. It takes 40 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup.

An interesting thing to note is the glass jug hanging over the evaporator. Being March, it's rather cold outside, and in the sugar shack. Pouring hot maple syrup into a cold glass jug will cause the jug to shatter instantly. Heating the jug above the evaporator makes the glass warm enough to prevent it from breaking.

Unfortunately, they can't sell the syrup they produce, but it's certainly worth a trip to the national park to watch the process.

Snowy Dunes

One of the great things about the winter at the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore -aside from the ice formations - is the fact that you're almost always alone. Occasionally we see others, but it's rare. And quite often, when I visit by myself, I don't see anyone for miles around.

Summers are usually very busy, but when I arrive before 7am, I'm also alone, watching nature wake up to another day.

As Far As The Eye Can See......Ice

Looking a lot more like the Arctic Ocean, Lake Michigan has its share of drift ice this year. While it appears to be quite solid, the drift ice is comprised of small pieces of ice "drifting" along on the surface of the lake. It's difficult to see, but a time-lapse image would show movement in almost every direction.

Apparently, the winds have been blowing from the Northwest, pushing all the ice toward the southeastern shore of the Great Lake.

Hiking the Waterline

It may not look like it, but this is the shore of Lake Michigan. The person walking is safe, right on the shore where the waves break in warmer weather. Cold water and waves create these mounds of shelf ice; this year, they extended hundreds of feet into the lake. Tempting hills to climb, but they can be deadly, so it's never a good idea to wander out onto them.

Into the Light

Kintzele Ditch keeps flowing into Lake Michigan, beneath the thick shelf ice that lines the shore. Sheltered from the winter sun, the temperature in this small valley between the dunes was much colder than the open beach, which receives full sun.

We couldn't wait to get back to the "warm" winter air.

The Carillonneur

Walking through the 265 foot long Rockefeller Memorial Chapel, while gazing up to the soaring vaulted ceilings, one feels small. Moments later, as the small, wooden door to the bell tower stairs opens, and the climb to the top begins, one feels large.  The 271 narrow steps spiral to the top, with barely enough room for an adult in a winter coat. We traverse a wooden catwalk that spans a portion of the chapel's false ceiling, around the mechanical unit that once controlled the hourly chimes, past the massive 18.5 ton, F note bell, through a walkway with two inches of snow on the path, and finally, to the heated cabin.

Once inside, the beautifully carved wood instrument commands attention.  The second heaviest musical instrument in the world (second only to it's sister in New York), the carillon, is an organ-like instrument connected to 72 cast bronze bells - each playing a different note - and weighing a total of 199,900 pounds.  The Carillonneur pushes the batons with his fists to activate the clappers of the higher pitched bells, and uses his feet to sound the lower pitched bells.

Mr. Jerry Jelsema, who commutes from southwest Michigan each Friday to play the carillon for 30 minutes, organizes his sheet music, and tunes the bells prior to the noon performance. On this particular day, after a few inches of snow, the bells sound a bit flat, but a few strikes of the batons and the snow falls off.

While Jerry was tuning the carillon, I walked up a few additional spiral stairs to a door that led to the outdoors - to the parapets, 188 feet above the street, near the top of the chapel's 207 foot tall bell tower.  I was alone, yet I shared the view with the stone figures carved at the top of the tower - Thomas Aquinas, John Bunyan, Thomas a Kempis, and Erasmus. Breathtaking views even on a cold, foggy day.

Oddly enough, as I returned to the cabin, I found that even though it was winter, Jerry opened all of the cabin windows. He explained that this was so he could hear the bells as he played -- it was rather difficult to hear all of the bells from inside the cabin. At the stroke of noon, he began to play the carillon with effortless, fluid movements, a testament to his musical talents.  If I wasn't in the cabin enjoying the performance, Jerry would have been playing alone, never seeing any of his audience outside, never receiving any feedback.

Mr. Jelsema played for 30 minutes, and described the process to me as he played. Following the performance, we locked up and headed back down the narrow, spiral stairs, opening the door to the massive chapel interior.

Who knew so much went in to making those beautiful sounds of the chapel bell tower.

Winter in St. Joseph

Said to be the most photographed lighthouse in Michigan, the St. Joseph range lights are a popular spot for avid photographers in winter. The 35 foot tall outer light often receives a thick layer of ice during winter storms. This year was no exception.

Here, people look around the inner light, probably to see if it's safe enough to walk past. It's deceiving from this angle - the outer light is over 100 feet from the inner light, and there is only about a two or three foot wide path between the lighthouse and the frigid lake. In winter, that path is often very slippery.

This year, many people ventured to the outer light, but not many dared go around to the windward side of the outer light. While I've seen hundreds of photos from the shore and the pier, I've only come across a couple of photographers who braved it and ventured out around the tower - me, my son Chris and another person who posted his image on Flickr.



It was worth the trek.

Punishment

Michigan City's east pierhead light endures another punishing day of wind and waves. Waves crash into the shelf ice, piling up more ice chunks, building more and more shelf ice.

The breakwater off shore, and the boulders along the pier prevent this lighthouse from getting covered in ice as often as its companion a few miles away, in St. Joseph, Michigan.

Lake Effect Snow Approaching

With Lake effect snow expected all weekend, I opened the window to check how much snow fell over night. At 5 am, not only was there no snow, but the stars were out. I headed outside with the camera and tripod to capture images of the stars.

In this 5 second exposure, the approaching lake effect snow can be seen on the horizon. By 6:30 am, the snow was falling.

Beneath the Canopy, Under the Bridge

Generally, following a hike down into the canyons of Matthiessen State Park's upper dell area, I'm confronted by a silky waterfall, or a frozen waterfall. While the waterfall was partially frozen, I was captivated more by the view up.

The arched, concrete pedestrian bridge and the bare trees silhouetted against a partly cloudy sky, mattered more to me than another photo of the waterfall.

Watch Your Step

Each winter, I dedicate a good portion of my photography to ice and snow. I really don't like cold weather, but for some reason, when I'm out photographing the frozen lakeshore, I don't mind so much. Along with the beauty of the ice, comes a lot of danger. It's easy to forget that these huge mounds of ice are deadly - very deadly. In between the 15 foot thick mounds of ice are dangerous holes - some leading directly to the deep, frigid waters below.

These holes are often covered over by loose, drifted snow or a paper-thin layer of ice. One step and you're in Lake Michigan - 33 degree Lake Michigan, with no way out. It's similar to falling into an open sewer, except there's no ladder to help you out, and you are pushed around under water by the wave action, so you don't pop up where you fell in.

In the photo here, Mike stands near one such hole. This one was easy to see, plus it was formed by waves crashing onto the beach, so it was not over water. Just a few feet to his right is the waterline of Lake Michigan, and the shelf ice continues for hundreds of feet off shore. The water is over 10 feet deep a few yards out, making it impossible for anyone to stand up and attempt to climb out. Besides, the sides of the shaft leading to the surface is slippery ice, and the water is so cold, muscles don't work.

If you're out near Lake Michigan in the winter, resist the temptation to walk on the shelf ice - it's much more beautiful from the top of the dunes, than from the bottom of the lake.

Hundreds of Feet of Ice

If you look closely, you'll see a person standing at the foot of the dune, just before the mounds of ice. That's Mike! He ran down the dune ahead of me to the beach.  Standing safely on the sand, he's just a few feet from where Lake Michigan begins, and he knows not to go any further. He really gives the shelf ice some scale.

I'm about 70 feet up the dune, and I can hardly see him. Compare him to the ice mounds behind him, and you begin to realize just how vast the ice field is.

On the Edge

This image is made up of 4, portrait oriented images, stitched together.

Standing (safely) on the first mound of shelf ice. I say "safely" because I know the beach is underneath me, not cold Lake Michigan. If I were to venture any further to the right, I would be standing on ice that formed over water, and was only connected to the shore at the surface - like a shelf; hence the term "shelf ice."

Barely visible are two people walking down the beach - they certainly give some scale to the amount of ice here at the shore. It extends hundreds of feet out into Lake Michigan. The wind and waves kick up the floating drift ice, it piles up near the shore in mounds over 15 feet tall. Then a calm period follows where more drift ice forms, followed by another windy day of ice piling up, and so on. This creates the series of ice mounds seen here.