Fifty years ago, winter didn’t just visit the Great Lakes — it took up residence. If you blinked too slowly, your eyelashes froze together. Standing on the ice at the edge of Lake Superior, just after an early January snowstorm, everything was white and still, except for the lake. The wind had swept across it revealing ice cracked along thunderous fractures.
Usually by Christmas, Lake Huron’s Saginaw Bay would be locked in — thick enough for trucks, ice shanties dotting the horizon like little wooden cities. People hauled augers and bait out before dawn, thermoses of black coffee steaming in the cold.
