I was standing on top of 2 feet of snow in an open North Dakota field more than a quarter of a mile from where I parked my truck. I was fully encased inside a down parka, carrying a full photo backpack and a large tripod with snow feet. The 1996/1997 winter was especially snowy—it would eventually flood the entire Red River Valley, causing more than $3.5 billion in damage—and everything was awash in blinding white. The temperature was hovering in the mid-20s, and the surface of the snow was a hard crust, which supported both me and my tripod.
I don’t remember what, exactly, I was photographing at the time, but I do recall I was out on that snow for more than an hour as the sun rose. When I turned to head back to the car, my first step broke through the crust, sinking me above the knee. As I tried to extricate myself, my other foot broke through. And so it went the entire way back to the truck. It was a slow and exhausting walk. Apparently, the morning sun had raised the temperature enough to weaken the top layer of crust, rendering it insufficient
