Hydrogen Dioxide Crystals Invade Wisconsin’s Lakes, Sidewalks, and Porch Steps—Brace Yourself for the Frozen Onslaught

This invasion began, as all good invasions do, at the water’s edge. A quiet morning along Lake Michigan: gulls wheeling overhead, distant freighters coughing on diesel dreams, and then—there they were. Rigid expanses of hydrogen dioxide crystals stretching from the shoreline and creeping outward like a glacial army of occupation. They weren’t content to remain at the watery border either. No, no, that would be too civilized. Soon, these crystals slipped onto inland lakes, ponds, and even the tiniest puddles on back roads. Then came the suburbs—where porch steps and sidewalks, once benign paths to your mailbox or front yard gnome, now gleam with treacherous brilliance. Before you know it, you’re skating where you once strode, clinging to railings, praying to any deity that might grant traction, and plotting a safer route to your driveway as though planning an expedition over an alpine pass.

Naturally, the so-called “experts” attempt to downplay the threat. They wag their gloved fingers and say things like, “This is winter. It’s natural. Calm down.” But let’s be honest here: The last time nature pulled something like this, we ended up inventing snow tires and salting our walkways as if we’re seasoning the world’s largest French fry. If the universe were truly on our side, it wouldn’t demand we battle crystallized hydrogen dioxide just to fetch the morning paper. Something more menacing is afoot. Perhaps, as the more paranoid among us quietly suspect, the frozen water lobby is involved—an insidious cabal lurking in drafty old barns, cackling into their cocoa as we slip and slide our way through the season.

Out on the sidewalks, an absurd ballet unfolds. I watch my neighbor, a sturdy fellow who once ran a marathon in a sleet storm just to prove he could, reduced to inching along his own walkway with the furtive caution of a cat burglar. Each step crunches with delicate uncertainty. One false move and—whoosh!—he’s down, flailing and cursing the heavens for this slippery subterfuge. The hydrogen dioxide crystals do not pity him. They only gleam coldly in the daylight, reflecting a perfect sky, mocking his gravity-bound form.

On the porch steps just outside my front door, the scene is not much better. Yesterday, I observed a squirrel attempt to descend these icy terraces with all the dignity a rodent can muster. Halfway down, the poor creature’s back paws gave way, sending it sliding rump-first into a decorative potted plant. If the local wildlife is slipping, what hope do we have? And yet, we venture forth anyway, bundling ourselves in layers of wool and denial, tentatively testing each footfall as though stepping onto some alien world covered in invisible banana peels.

Of course, the infiltration goes beyond mere inconvenience. With the advent of these crystals, errands turn epic and daily life is transformed into a kind of survival challenge. Picking up a gallon of milk means braving the driveway equivalent of a frictionless slip-’n-slide. Taking out the trash involves a harrowing mission across a glaze of hydrogen dioxide, where a single misstep could send your recyclables scattering into the neighbor’s yard. Walking the dog? Good luck convincing Fido that it’s perfectly normal to relieve himself on a surface that’s basically a horizontal skating rink. Even indoor activities don’t feel entirely safe. After all, who’s to say these crystals won’t find a way inside, lurking in the soles of your boots, creeping toward the kitchen floor, waiting for a chance to claim more victims?

Some might say I exaggerate—that I’ve engaged in journalistic ornamentation. Well, this is WOYJO, after all. But consider this: The infiltration is annual. Its return is inevitable. Like a cosmic prank, every winter these crystals reappear, forging vast alliances of slippery peril. Have we learned nothing from the past? Each year we hope for a gentle winter—just a dusting of snow, a nip in the air, maybe the sort of quaint scene you’d find on a holiday postcard. Instead, we get hydrogen dioxide hardening beneath our boots, turning Wisconsin’s gentle landscape into an obstacle course for even the most sure-footed among us.

Yet, as we careen toward February, something curious happens. We adapt. We become cunning and suspicious, arming ourselves with salt and sand, attaching metal cleats to our boots, perfecting a penguin-like shuffle that, while humiliating, keeps us upright. We learn to embrace the absurdity of the situation, chuckling wryly as we wave to neighbors, each of us participating in a silent game: Who can reach the mailbox without performing an accidental pirouette?

Therein lies the micro smirk, the punchline hidden in this slippery saga. The infiltration, for all its menace and bruised tailbones, can’t break our spirit. Winter presses down on us like a disapproving mother-in-law, but we stand tall (at least when we’re not sprawled on the pavement). We trade stories of near-spills and epic wipeouts as if recounting heroic wartime feats. We ice-proof our porches and laugh at our own precarious attempts to exist in a world turned crystal. When spring finally comes—and it will—we’ll shake our heads and say, “Remember that insane infiltration of hydrogen dioxide crystals?” as if we haven’t survived it every single year since birth.

So yes, call it ice, call it hydrogen dioxide in crystalline form, call it the devil’s slide—whatever you please. It’s here, coating lakes, sidewalks, and porch steps, bringing just enough chaos to keep us on our toes (or on our behinds, depending on your balance). And while we may curse under our breath each time we almost meet the pavement face-first, there’s a certain resilience in these winter rituals. Wisconsin, land of culinary indulgence and meteorological madness, will outlast this infiltration, and we’ll be better for it—at least once the bruises fade. Until then, keep your traction aids at the ready, your humor intact, and remember: The infiltration is only as powerful as the fear it creates. Stay cool. Stay upright. Stay Wisconsin.