Last Ice
Amy Sacka has been photographing and writing about Great Lakes ice for publications such as National Geographic since 2016. A Michigan native, some of her earliest memories are of her father, a 50-year ice angler, leaving the house in the muddy black of winter mornings, armed with a bucket, an ice auger and a desire to catch the limit before sunrise.
In "Last Ice," Amy takes viewers on a 30,000-mile journey around all five Great Lakes. Through photos that document stunning icy landscapes and quintessential Midwestern winter pastimes, Last Ice both celebrates a season millions hold dear and serves as a harbinger of the future to come — one marked by climate change and swiftly diminishing ice cover all across the Great Lakes.
This work was published by National Geographic in the September 2020 magazine and online in February 2019. This work was also featured in Huffington Post, Guernica magazine, Field & Stream, and Grist. It was exhibited at Photoville Winchester (2023), Ford House (2022), and Dossin Museum (2021) through a Knight Arts Challenge grant.
In "Last Ice," Amy takes viewers on a 30,000-mile journey around all five Great Lakes. Through photos that document stunning icy landscapes and quintessential Midwestern winter pastimes, Last Ice both celebrates a season millions hold dear and serves as a harbinger of the future to come — one marked by climate change and swiftly diminishing ice cover all across the Great Lakes.
This work was published by National Geographic in the September 2020 magazine and online in February 2019. This work was also featured in Huffington Post, Guernica magazine, Field & Stream, and Grist. It was exhibited at Photoville Winchester (2023), Ford House (2022), and Dossin Museum (2021) through a Knight Arts Challenge grant.
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How do we prepare?
The wooden swing wrapped in plastic on the lawn.
An unopened bag of rock salt next to the garage.
My father’s camouflage snowsuit on the hallway bench, fresh from the attic.
“Any ice on Lake Erie?” I overhear in a diner near the water's edge.
The wooden swing wrapped in plastic on the lawn.
An unopened bag of rock salt next to the garage.
My father’s camouflage snowsuit on the hallway bench, fresh from the attic.
“Any ice on Lake Erie?” I overhear in a diner near the water's edge.
All along the the shoreline
there is talk of the lake and her mood.
"Will it or won't it freeze?"
I imagine my dad at his house looking out the window.
Waiting.
there is talk of the lake and her mood.
"Will it or won't it freeze?"
I imagine my dad at his house looking out the window.
Waiting.
When it finally arrives
A village of ice anglers gather on down-turned buckets,
rods cast into perfectly augured six-inch portals.
I wish I could dive into those small spaces where silvery fish swim between the weeds,
the heavy military boots planted around the holes overhead.
I’m told by anglers that the ice represents
a silence that spreads out and forms a connective tissue between them.
A village of ice anglers gather on down-turned buckets,
rods cast into perfectly augured six-inch portals.
I wish I could dive into those small spaces where silvery fish swim between the weeds,
the heavy military boots planted around the holes overhead.
I’m told by anglers that the ice represents
a silence that spreads out and forms a connective tissue between them.
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Sometimes I picture my mother in the car after dropping off my father to go ice fishing. She watches him walk through a field to that icy unknown space, nervously watching him plan and plod until he gets there. Her hands reaching up to shield the sun from her eyes. |
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When it’s changing,
the ice makes strange noises that sound like whales
or some mysterious sea creatures
communicating underneath.
the ice makes strange noises that sound like whales
or some mysterious sea creatures
communicating underneath.
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One time when I was about a mile out with only a few people in sight,
the small shanty I was in started violently shaking for a moment.
“Ice earthquake!”
an ice angler said, and then went back to his fishing.
The ice was expanding.
I felt alive.
the small shanty I was in started violently shaking for a moment.
“Ice earthquake!”
an ice angler said, and then went back to his fishing.
The ice was expanding.
I felt alive.
All along the ice, I find myself sharing space with strangers.
Fellow enthusiasts, friends of the winter.
One time a man opened his home to me on Lake Michigan.
As I stood in his kitchen, I began scanning
the sayings he had plastered on his walls,
like arteries of a value system.
Fellow enthusiasts, friends of the winter.
One time a man opened his home to me on Lake Michigan.
As I stood in his kitchen, I began scanning
the sayings he had plastered on his walls,
like arteries of a value system.
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In our time together, he told me he often thinks about the people
who live on the other side of Lake Michigan.
“Who are they?” he says,
this water, the divider yet something
like a life force between them.
who live on the other side of Lake Michigan.
“Who are they?” he says,
this water, the divider yet something
like a life force between them.
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In March, it is coming to an end,
but these mornings are the ones I love most.
When I get out of my car and tiptoe onto the ice.
I can hear the quiet because every noise is amplified.
The train in the distance.
Birds overhead.
In a marina parking lot,
I see a man sitting in a truck staring at the diminishing ice.
I go up and tap on his window.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“I’m just watching,” he replies, his eyes scanning the horizon.
but these mornings are the ones I love most.
When I get out of my car and tiptoe onto the ice.
I can hear the quiet because every noise is amplified.
The train in the distance.
Birds overhead.
In a marina parking lot,
I see a man sitting in a truck staring at the diminishing ice.
I go up and tap on his window.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“I’m just watching,” he replies, his eyes scanning the horizon.
