The Beast that Sleeps Deep
I feel like I’m on a giant’s body that is breathing, like the ice is pulsating up and down.
Benjamin Alva Polley
Nonfiction
From a distance, the lake looks an innocent blue, like open water. When we ski closer, we see that it’s actually covered by a blanket of ice, and when we draw closer still, we hear strange noises beneath the surface—grumbles, gurgles and moans. It’s a language older than words and beyond human comprehension. They sound like whale songs, or the rumbling of a hungry stomach. We pause nervously on our skis. There are four of us trekking through Glacier National Park on a wildlife study. None of us want to anger the deity that sleeps at the bottom of Kintla Lake.
There’s a rational explanation for why the lake makes these sounds. During the day, the sun shines down, heating the black water and creating thermals. Then, at night, the water cools, the ice thickens, and growing pains fill the air. But science is not what comes to mind when I’m standing on my skis and staring out at the lake this late winter afternoon. The noises seem too eerie to be explained away.
We can see about three-and-a-half miles of the lake before it hooks to the right, out of sight. Small pools of water dot the ice. Pressure ridges run through it like raised scars. We side-step down to the lake slowly, and ski a bridge of ice that appears safe, leading through jumbled and jagged ice plates that resemble teeth of a large beast.
Listen. The lake is talking. Is it welcoming us out on the ice or is it warning us not to cross it? Either way, the fear is almost palpable.
Dusk is settling in, and we still have nearly six miles to ski. We have headlamps strapped to our heads like miners, and self-rescue screws strung around our necks. It’s getting darker by the minute. The first stars appear in the night sky. Jupiter shines bright and low in the west and starts to sink behind the Whitefish Range.
I’ve skied Kintla Lake in winter many times before, but now I have to summon courage with each kick and glide of my skis. My pack is so stuffed with gear that my shoulders and neck are aching. Apart from the physical discomfort, there’s the psychological one: I’m so preoccupied with the strength of the ice that even taking a deep breath and relaxing is a struggle.
The purpose of our study is to figure out if there’s a population of fishers in GNP. Fishers are members of the weasel family. They’re bigger and darker than pine martens, and about half the size of wolverines.
Just last week, temperatures were in the fifties in Polebridge and much of the North Fork valley. In this part of Montana, we usually have a January thaw, but this is extreme and the lake has only frozen within the last two weeks. How strong could the ice possibly be? I scurry across it, avoiding the edges of the lake where the ice is thinnest. My friends venture out into the middle, while I cautiously ski from bay to bay.
I feel like I’m on a giant’s body that is breathing, like the ice is pulsating up and down. Fear sends adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream as cracks in the ice spider-web out beyond my peripheral vision. I don’t want to disturb the beast that sleeps deep, down in the dark, by slipping and falling. He might just reach a hand up through a crack and pull me down into the cold to feed his grumbling stomach.
Falling through the ice would be disastrous: According to the Flathead Commission, Kintla Lake is 390 feet deep. A fall could easily happen, though. It would be a game changer.
Game on! All of us have played the scenario in our minds over and over. If you fall in, try not to gasp, keep your mouth closed and remain calm. Most people who fall in drown because of the initial gasp. Grab your rescue screws and slam them into the ice shelf above the water and then pull yourself out from the abyss. A few of your companions will ski to a safe vantage point and throw you rescue ropes. Another will get a raging fire going on shore. They will get you out of the lake without anyone else getting hurt. They will get you into warm clothes immediately. One of them will get into a sleeping bag with you to generate more body heat and help fight off hypothermia.
I’ve been skiing on frozen lakes for over a decade and nothing like this has ever happened. Still, the possibility lingers in the back of my mind. I remind myself that a few inches of ice can hold several hundreds of pounds—and that our skis spread out our mass.
The ice on the lake is not usually this frightening because ordinarily it’s covered by a thin layer of snow. This time the lake is clear as a skating rink. My skis are fast and loud, announcing my presence to all critters around. I can see boulders and logs beneath the ice—they lie along the shallows, twenty to thirty feet down. The noises coming up through the ice are more unsettling than ever.
According to Richard Nelson, a cultural anthropologist who studied the Koyukon people of Alaska, the native people there say that when lakes make these sounds, they are asking the heavens to send down ice and then snow to insulate the lake from the cold winter air. But maybe the sounds can be attributed to all the fish that have lived and died in this body of water—maybe what I’m hearing is their spirits screaming out. Or maybe the sounds belong to all the creatures that have been preyed upon by predators in this valley. Or perhaps the sounds belong to humans who have died on this lake—maybe their bodies are hidden in the depths and maybe it’s their souls who are crying out.
The weird possibilities keep multiplying in my brain.
As the night cools, the noises from the lake grow louder and more insistent. Because there’s no snow, I have no way to kick and glide with my Nordic skis. I use my upper body to pull myself forward with my poles and hope to glide fifty feet or so with each pull of my poles. Any variation in this relatively simple routine could send me on my ass and make me vulnerable to the sleeping giant below.
One of my friends sees a wide pressure ridge in the ice ahead, so we slow to a stop. Sometimes, open water alerts us to danger and other times, someone will notice ice that’s barely frozen. Whatever the obstacle, we all come to a halt. With our headlamps we assess the pressure ridge searching for a safe passage across. My heart quickens. “How are we going to get around that?” I holler to no one in particular. “Should we go on to shore?” We all shrug our shoulders as the beam from our headlamps goes from each other back to the obstacle. Then the bravest one in our group takes a deep breath and maneuvers via a channel to safety, like thread through the eye of a needle. Only then do the rest of us continue. This happens numerous times: we freeze in fear, we wait, and then we follow the leader.
Midway down the lake, there’s a pool of open water, many hundreds of acres large. Either it’s resting on top of the ice or we are nearing an area where there’s no ice at all. Darkness surrounds us now. All that black water, wrinkled with waves, is a frightening sight. We skirt it, and ski its western edges. I’ll never know how thick the ice beneath us is—it’s impossible to tell in the dark—but we make it to the cabin at the head of the lake without falling in and without meeting the beast.
After dinner, in the darkness of the cabin, I listen again to the groaning of the lake. It’s a deep, mournful sound. Whether it’s a deity or a monster under the ice—or just frozen water shifting and settling—it is one of the most transfixing sounds I’ve ever heard. Indigenous people in northern climates must have incorporated the otherworldly noises into music, art and rituals—accompanying them with their chanting and their flutes and their drums.
No matter where the sounds come from, I give the ice respect. The noises start to sound beautiful once I’ve faced my fears and crossed over.
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