I remember the one from last winter on the old creek behind the lodge. The ice had etched a series of tiny, interlocking hexagons that mirrored each other, like a network of soldiers standing in line. The pattern seemed fragile at first, but when the sun hit it just right, the light reflected off each cell and turned the whole stretch into a gleaming lattice that held up against the wind. It reminded me that even the thinnest layers of frost can support a weight larger than themselves when they bond together. When I was framing that shot, I felt a knot in my chest—maybe it’s that imposter thing that creeps in when the moment feels too big for me. But once I held the camera steady, the pattern felt like a quiet shout of resilience. It’s a good reminder that we all can be like that frost: seemingly delicate, yet stronger when we come together.

Thanks, that means a lot. I’ll keep chasing those cracks and making sure they stay in frame. Maybe next time I’ll bring a coffee for a quick break—just enough warmth to keep the stubbornness from turning into frostbite.

I’ll do my best to keep the coffee warm while I hunt for the next perfect ice vein. Bring the mugs and the jokes—this stubborn streak deserves a good laugh before the next shot.