Forty years ago this morning, the first flakes of snow started falling from a pewter sky. It was cold, real cold, and both the official forecasts and the unofficial signs, particularly the seiches under the thick ice that cracked and moaned in response to hidden, pressure-driven waves, suggested that we were in for the real thing. The National Weather Service wasn't kidding, and by mid-afternoon, we were hunkered down in the A-frame we then called home. But as what would become known as the Great Blizzard of ’78 reached full throttle, I wrapped my Nikon film camera in plastic, wrapped myself in the heaviest-duty parka I owned, and trekked out into the storm to take some pictures. The wind was howling so loud and fast that much of the snow on the frozen lake just below the house was swept clean and piled into drifts that grew to be twenty feet deep. I didn't stay out too long and somehow, even without a safety line, managed to find my way home.