Some explorers cross vast oceans and inhospitable deserts, braving incredible hardship - hunger, storms, disease, without any certainty of success. They seek new peoples, continents, or vast riches, and sometimes they find them. Other times they find death and ruin, but whatever they discover, everlasting fame, or at least infamy, follows their name.

My friends and I are not this sort of explorer. We sought to bushwhack our way from the parking lot to a place where I could take some pictures of snowy swamps. We were prepared to brave hardships including very chilly weather, ankle deep snow, and possibly wet feet.

Unfortunately, the 64th street entrance to First Landing State Park was closed. But, like Magellan or any other explorer you might name, we persevered in the face of difficulty. We drove to the Shore Drive entrance, which was open. We began our hike on the trails, but once we reached the junction of trails at the western end of White Hill Lake, we decided, like Hannibal to challenge ourselves. Hannibal, as you no doubt remember, rode his elephants over the Alps to Rome when he might have just let them swim, or something. I'm not too clear on the details.

In our case, we decided to get to the shore of Broad Bay along the northern edge of White Hill Lake instead of the southern. There is no trail along the northern end of White Hill Lake, and there's no obvious way to cross the swamp that flows from its eastern tip. Why did we go this way? No particular reason - just a whim, I suppose. Or, wait, what I really mean is: because it is there.

It began easily enough. The snow wasn't too deep, and while we encountered our share of greenbriar - the bane of any explorer - we were wearing big coats and snow pants anyway. The challenge came when we needed to start rounding the eastern tip of the lake. It's a swampy land, with little islands of higher ground. The vegetation is thick, and while the swamp was frozen, it wasn't that frozen. Pretty much you broke through instantly, and it wasn't obvious how deep the water would be underneath.

Eventually, after a few sketchy swamp crossings, we reached the crux move: crossing the channel. It was about 8 or 9 feet of open water, flowing gently into the lake. I estimate that it was between 2 and 3 feet deep, and we were not eager to overtop our boots in 22 degree weather, more than 2 miles from the car. I'm sure Shackleton would understand our feelings. No doubt he faced similar situations in his exploration of the Antarctic.

There were two options to cross. One was trying to follow the high ground. It looked like it might curve off to the left and around to the higher ground across the lake. I was skeptical, as the creek flowed into the bushes over there as well. There might be a crossing over there or there might not. In any case, it wouldn't be easy. The other option was a couple of logs, fallen in line with each other, leading across the creek and most of the way through the remaining swamp. They were pretty wide, which was helpful, but they were also covered with snow. There was also some weasel tracks or something leading across them.

In the end we went with the locals' recommendation. I led, sliding on my belly alone the log. Some comments were made regarding my technique from the peanut gallery behind, but when they faced the log, they quickly realized those logs were slippery as shit, and it was the only sensible way across.

The rest of the hike was pleasant, if anti-climactic. The highlight was immediately after the log crossing when Greg felt he could find a better route through the swamp than I could, and then overtopped one of his boots. Our reward, however, ranked with Pizarro's room full of gold (and was achieved without kidnapping a single emperor): we went to Bay Local for brunch. I had biscuits with gravy and tater tots. Brad had a steak with a pancake, eggs, tater tots, and a Bud in a paper bag. Dipping my tot into my gravy, I felt that all of our deprivation was worthwhile. No doubt our names will live forever as the circumnavigators of White Hill Lake, but brunch is better anyway. Probably Europeans would have discovered the new world much sooner if they'd known you could have a meal between lunch and breakfast as a reward.

Bonus Picture: Domo, king of the backyard and patio, considers his newly-snowy domain.