A Night in an Icehouse on Lake Mille Lacs: or, the Ice Women Cometh

The west wind was howling across fifteen miles of wide open lake—Mille Lacs, to be exact, one of the largest lakes in northern Minnesota. Wind wrapped and whirled itself around every crack and corner of our very solid, very vulnerable little icehouse. Ice beneath and around us was cracking, making those loud dramatic noises that are exciting when you’ve lived around frozen water long enough to know that’s what it does. It cracks and rumbles. Even four solid feet of ice like to move around a bit.

There we were, my friend Jane and I and our young sons, Kelly and David, and their good friend Gino. We had been invited by Gino’s grandmother, Laurie, to bring the boys and come spend a night during winter break.

As dusk turned to dark, we arrived at Agate Bay Resort, just outside of Isle. The woman behind the counter gave us directions. “Drive out onto the lake and when you come to the T in the road, turn left. Go about a half mile and you’ll see white Christmas lights around an icehouse. Laurie’s the only one with outdoor lights.”

Cautiously, we drove out onto the lake, wheels crunching across well-packed snow. The whip of the wind sent swirls of snow sweeping across the road. The lake road was plowed, but we were looking for nuances—a white ridge against a white road. Inching along, we came upon a small wooden sign with two arrows, so we hung a left.

A series of small huts appeared on both sides of the road. Then, one lit up in white lights. We pulled in.The door opened and there were Laurie, Gino, and Gino’s sister Isabella, greeting us with bright smiling faces. In we came to a very compact, very cozy space that just happens to have four one-foot-square holes cut into the bottom of the floor and through several feet of ice, one in each corner. A bit of a hazard for young children or any adult not really paying attention. “Watch out for the hole” was a common refrain. Hanging above each of these holes was a line with bells attached, dangling down into the open water. If you bump into them you have to call out, “It’s me on the bells,” otherwise the bell is a signal to Laurie to move into her fisherwoman mode, to “jig” the line.

The truly defining feature of Laurie’s icehouse, besides all the fish decorations, is the chandelier hanging from its ceiling. In this village of 300 huts, she is one of only a few women to own and manage her own icehouse.

When sleep time arrived, Jane and the three boys and I walked to the neighboring ice hut, one with no open holes and a gas heater on. The wind was still gusting and stars lit up the dark sky. Lying on my slice of futon, title lines from Eugene O’Neill plays floated into my mind. My own rendition: The Long Night’s Journey into Day and then, when the ice was vociferously rumbling, The Iceman Cometh. I was wedged against the west-facing wall, intimately connected to the rhythm of the wind all night long.

Morning sun cast a rose-tinted glow across snow ridges and ripples. I woke early. The rose shaded almost imperceptibly into gold, then a yellow-white light. I flung open the door, breathed deep the incredibly fresh air, and stepped out into the brilliance of a new day.