Why You Should Be Jumping in Frozen Lakes

A spiritual experience for the peer-pressured

I never regret a swim. The effort to get out the door oftentimes deters me, but once I’m in the water there is no looking back. The feeling of a smooth dive off the ledge, coming up for air after going a little too deep. The water trickling away from my eyes and a quick gasp for breath. The dust of the day washed away by cool water slippery against warm skin. A clear mind, no distractions.

Someone told me once, Every swim in the water is like getting baptized all over again.

Anyone who knows me knows my Bingo card is made up of nostalgic reflections of summers Up North and Lake Michigan. Growing up like a little fish, I was ruined on crystalline blue, clean, cold water. Water so pure you can drink it. I now balk if I lose sight of my toes while swimming and cringe at the thought of a murky inland lake.

Spending time with dear friends outside Seattle this summer, we backpacked to Gem Lake. The lake lives up to its name, deep emerald water lapping against the smooth rocks. It even passed the scrutiny of a freshwater critic like myself—tempting me in with its clear waters.

After a rigorous hike to the top of the mountain, we found a sandy nook nestled among the blueberry bushes overlooking the lake to set up our tents. As we lit the precariously mounted camp stoves to make dinner—freeze-dried bags of beef bourguignon brought back to life with steaming water— the cold air started to set in around us. I knew I’d regret the decision later as I shivered in the tent, but I couldn’t help myself. Slipping down to the rippling water’s edge, I neatly folded my wool layers on a rock and slid my still-warm body into the dark water.

Later that summer, back in Michigan, we drove north to hike the cliffs of Pictured Rocks. It was as stunning as I remembered from my childhood. Eight miles in we came to a stretch of sandy beach. We’d passed a small cove earlier, with no path down into the water except to jump off the ledge with a questionable route back to safety. Now, with a short swim in reverse along the coastline, we could easily reach the cove by water.

A short swim out into the expansive lake and around the edge of the limestone wall paid off, and we were soon deep within a quiet limestone-walled cove. The water is a enchanting place. Surrounded by walls rising a good 30 feet around us, the tall waves rolled gently in, crashing against the sheer rock. It was cold, glowing and sparkling—an iridescent blue made brighter by the warm late-summer sun. It was cold enough to be concerned about staying out long, away from the easy reach of shore, but I still felt safe—cared for by some combination of the external forces of nature and childish confidence.

I lasted three minutes in the water today, at most. My toes are still tingly inside my shearling slippers as I sit with my feet in front of the radiating fireplace. A jump in the lake is best on a quiet night, the Christmas lights twinkling on the inky water and barely a ripple lapping the shore. The exterior shock to the body quickly dissolves into a steely mental resolve of tranquility—an attempt to match the calm of your surroundings. Tonight, the frigid lake was harsh and choppy.

We yipped and hollered our way down the concrete boat launch into the icy waters of Little Traverse Bay this afternoon. When steely resolve fails you, peer pressure— disguised as companionship— always does the trick. A gray sky loomed above, no sun shining through, but neither was it far enough gone to let the moon and stars come out to romanticize the ridiculous activity of jumping into a freezing lake in late December.

Once we were in, standing chest-deep in the water, I felt quite alive. The waves inched up around my midsection as I tried to keep my balance on the slippery boat launch. Alive, and present. A little too present, perhaps. Nothing can enter your mind but the very situation you’ve put yourself in, which is so refreshingly uncomfortable and totally optional. The cold permeates your skin, stripping away the noise of the day. It’s akin to a spiritual experience. Maybe it is. Mind and body at odds with each other, yet still in sync.