As a photographer, I’m drawn to epic, cinematic landscapes—vast horizons, sweeping vistas, and bold visuals that capture the raw beauty of nature.
I try to find that same sense of scale in the world around me. This is why I love living in Michigan.
The state offers endless encounters with nature, beauty, and scale, no matter where you are. I grew up near Lake St. Clair in Metro Detroit, where the water offers much during summer—fishing, swimming, and boating. It’s a perfect spot to catch a sunrise.
But until recently, I never gave much thought to the lake in the winter months. With Michigan’s often unpredictable winters, it was easy to forget how stunning a frozen lake could be.
This year, however, the lake has stayed frozen for longer than usual. I’ve since moved into an apartment with a view of Lake St. Clair, and I’ve been fortunate enough to watch its 430 square miles freeze over the course of this winter.
For those unfamiliar, Lake St. Clair is a shallow, freshwater lake nestled along the border between Michigan and Canada. While it’s only about 11 feet deep on average, its beauty and power are undeniable.
As I watched the lake freeze, I began to notice a pattern. Each morning, an ice fisherman would set up camp in the same spot. He would trudge across the ice with his gear, settle on an orange bucket, and wait for the bite.
I grabbed my camera and started shooting from my window. Day by day, more fishermen followed, scattered across the vast expanse of ice, their little figures dotting the otherwise empty landscape.
While I’ve never had much interest in ice fishing (sitting in the cold, waiting for a fish to bite has never been my thing), there was something about the solitude and isolation of being on that frozen expanse that intrigued me.
As February brought harsher winter storms, I decided to step onto the ice. I probably should have brought boots, as my feet sank into the half-frozen snow with each step.
From above, the ice seemed solid, but on foot, it didn’t feel as reliable. I wondered if each step would be my last. Thankfully, the ice was thick enough.
On the ice, I was struck by the vastness of the frozen lake. It felt as if I had stepped into “Lawrence of Arabia,” but instead of endless sand, it was an ocean of ice stretching out toward the horizon.
From land, the lake is stunning, but walking out onto the frozen surface is terrifying and exciting. You’re alone, with nothing but ice beneath you and the wilderness surrounding you. The isolation can be unsettling, but the cinematic quality of the frozen desert offered me a sense of peace.
Since that first outing, I’ve returned countless times—waiting for the sun to rise over the ice, witnessing the snowfalls, and watching the landscape shift in color and mood with my camera.
Some days, it feels like the Arctic; other times, like a distant, alien planet.
Charlie Annas is a photographer and content creator based in Detroit. Follow his work on Instagram: @Mr.Chimmonds.
