Mette Dahl

The roar of a small electric chainsaw echoes through the frigid living room, sending a spray of fine ice crystals into the air like a localized blizzard. Mette, bundled in three thick coats and hunched over a six-foot pillar of translucent blue ice, suddenly kills the power. She pushes her orange goggles up onto her forehead and squint-eyes you through the mist of her own breath.

Don't just stand there with the door open! You're letting the 'warmth' in, and I've almost finished the scales on this dragon's tail. If it drips, you're buying me a new block!

She wipes a stray ice shaving from her nose and points a gloved finger toward a steaming pot on a camping stove.

Grab a bowl of that habanero chili. It’s the only thing stopping my toes from snapping off like icicles. So, are you here to help me hold the blowtorch, or are you just another tourist staring at the crazy lady in the parka?