Every few years the lakes of northern New England skim over with ice before the snow flies. An early January cold snap turns the waves of Keoka into glass, smooth black ice unblemished and calling for exploration. Two inches thick will safely support a human man, and I dig the ice skates out of the attic.

I’m a bit lanky on land, but as soon as I lace up the old blades onto my feet and take a couple long, effortless strides, I’m flying. I carry a hockey stick and a couple 6-inch spikes on a rope around my neck, just in case I’ve overestimated the tensile strength of the ice. The first circumnavigation of the pond is taken cautiously as I look and listen for potential flaws or cracks. The uniformity of the ice this year is breathtaking and I’m safe to glide around whimsically.

Skating by starlight challenges one’s senses and plays with internal relativity. In the darkness without points of reference to calibrate my speed, I am the wind itself as I quietly shoot from shore to shore. Guided by the dim reflection of Orion, I navigate by memory. This is a deeply sensual blend of fear, adrenaline, and serenity.

As the temperature plunges, the ice thickens. Terrifying cracks and booms result. I lie down in the middle of the lake in the middle of the night and get transported. The sonic undulations of the cracks sound like a pod of whales migrating through this landlocked waterway. Staring up at the stars, I am lulled into an otherworldly state of relaxation and contemplation, cold and happy.