Green Lake did not strike me as particularly green, or at least not when we were there. Perhaps earlier in the year green graces the lake’s banks and waters, yet for us it was in mourning of summer’s passing. White mud stretching ice-like all across the dry bed. Unmistakably a lake, yet the oddest sight to behold. Our group walked for about a mile through the dry scablands, sun warming our heads. When we first arrived, we rest on a hill overlooking the white flat plain.  After much pulling grasses out of our socks, we went down to investigate.

The Lake’s surface seemed covered in powered sugar. I could see the tall yellow grasses surrounding and decorating the lake. The grass near the lake was green and as it receded, the color turned from a bright green to a beautiful golden yellow. When observing the lake I couldn’t help but feel like an explorer. Like I had discovered something important past compare.

Beyond the lake are cliffs, boulders piled halfway up its base, massive, majestic, more than a hundred feet tall. I could not capture all three sides in one tiny photograph as much as I tried, and it is the cliffs that make this place as much as the lake itself. Jagged shapes appear on the cliff face, the rock is too brittle to climb yet I cannot help but imagine doing so. I would stand at the top and shout. Voice echoing out across the wide winding plain, and down below absorbed as if by felt. It is quiet on the floor of the lake. I find my instincts piqued, my ear expectant of some danger in silence such as this.

I ended up exploring the lake with my feet. Barefoot I could feel the soft first  layer, white as snow yet warmer than what lay beneath. As I stepped down I could feel the moist gushy mud molding around my foot, squeezing through the small cracks between my toes. Mud almost up to my knee, I could now feel my feet getting the warmth sucked out from them, and the cold darkness started to creep in. Wanting to keep going forward I pulled my leg out of the abyss and back to the surface. Walking on the surface of that lake was fascinating. The only thing comparable to it is a giant ice cream cake.

Layers down, layers in and out as well. The edge is dry, hard not brittle, like soft ceramic tiles. Further in you begin to sink, maybe three inches into the crust. It feels spongy like wet felt to walk on but not touch.

Smell: The smell is distinct but hard to describe. There is a clayish damp sour smell, like plaster perhaps with a hint of plant decay, or grout mixed with seaweed that’s sat in the sun, or shrimp that’s just been shelled. It’s not a bad smell, just interesting. It’s a thick white smell

Sight: The lake itself isn’t very green. Looking from the North East a 100 feet from the lake’s edge I can see that the right side is covered in a layer of white, resembling, or a t least reminding me of salt flats. From my perspective the left side is a visible puddle of water, apparently the lowest part of the lake. All across it’s also reminiscent of snow, footprints scattered across the surface forming odd patterns all across.

Taste: It tastes like baking soda, sharp on the surface, flatter the deeper I dig. The taste stays in my mouth long after I’ve spit it out, still present the following morning when I wake up.

Sound: Silence. An occasional bird chirp, an amplified voice of a far off student.