Setting out on Grass Lake with two ice saws, we walked to opposing sides of the lake and began cutting towards each other. Each stroke of the saw removed three inches of ice, efficiently piling up the waste in mounds of slush alongside a black line of water. Initially bundled against a cold winter day we shed layer by layer, leaving behind gloves and jackets on the ice. Our line meandered in a gentle arc through our constant course corrections, working ever closer to the center.

Our motivation was simple. A desire to work, to use our labor to contribute to society but unclear of how. So like children we set out to explore the already mapped terrain, surrounded as we were by the vestigial remains of ice fishing holes, within view of homes and a paved road, at play but also aware of the long history of environmental abuse, of the implications of manipulating the land, even if only temporarily.

Halfway there, our arms tired, the stroke of the saw was no longer effortless or exciting. Each foot came at a larger cost. Breaks became frequent. Then the approach of the center became reinvigorating, the prospect of completion a new motivator. With only two feet of ice remaining, a resounding ripple spread across the lake—the tension between these two massive ice sheets released in one pulse, fracturing the remaining ice between us into a soft web. We had cut a lake in half, and the lake acknowledged our presence.

By the time we had packed up to leave, the lake had refrozen. Our line was only visible as a skin of fresh ice. Three weeks later Grass Lake thawed, the two halves of the lake reunited.