Bundled up in an Orenburg shawl for warmth and as a secret Russian fear tactic, my ever-present coffee and dog leash in hand, I somehow ended up at the lake.

Let's try that again.

I somehow ended up at the lake:

And by "somehow" I mean that I followed a dapper basset hound, sporting a blue waterproof jumpsuit and booties, tracking deer scent.

The temperature drop must have been sudden and drastic, because the waves of an incoming tide looked like they were frozen mid-motion, then peppered over with snow. Indeed, it is as if they were instantly petrified by a Gorgon.

At least, that is how I imagined the great Medusa's powers when I took art classes at the famous Pushkin Museum in Moscow as a child.

Although it also seemed like Medusa left a part of herself in these sculptured waters: snakes-turned-icicles.

But not the entire lake was frozen: only the first few feet at the shore. In fact, some of the ice, more fragile than elsewhere, had cracked, and water seeped through. It was there that warmer smoky air--this glacial giant's breath--endlessly rose toward the sky.