Standing on the quiet shore of Lake St. Croix, where the Winter River rests, sealed in ice, we listen for something other than the snarl of a snowmobile or the grind of hard rubber on frozen gravel. Beyond the hum of the cars crossing the bridge (which links the lands of two states bound by shared forests, waters, soil, dairies, fisheries, and long memory) there are other sounds, deeper, older, wiser, enchanting.

Crossing these still waters too quickly by motor, we may miss the splintering sounds of thunder snapping sideways through the great sheets of ice—a sound that can awaken old stones. Coyote's yip summons those who still listen, to gather under the boughs of the northern forest cathedral, coaxing the ice to sing the old hymns. Some may neglect or even forget the sounds of winter's chorus, those who remain awake through the long dark: the lamenting of the wolves, the whispering hooves of deer, the ascending sky-hunters and the cunning squawk of corvids. And through the augured fishing holes or the places where rock and sun conspire to soften the river’s crystal skin, we faintly hear the murmur of the underworld—the slow gurgling, ached moaning, and shifting echoes—the resonant sounds of the soul.

In the depths of these quiet mysteries, when our shadows cast long, we may deny the faint whispers of an exiled voice, longing to be remembered. Here, the old teachers—ice, thunder, hoof-beat, and the unseen currents of the deep waters—remind us that the quiet wandering voice within, remembers us.

This winter, we are called by the thundering ice, to listen...listen for the forsaken, abandoned, forgotten, and the disenfranchised voices that move toward us, that call us back to them, guiding us to the water's edge, to the edge, to our edges. Welcome them all and "Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."

January 30, 31, and February 1, 2026

Men of all backgrounds and traditions are invited to join us at the conference.