The mountain of ice rose out of the fog in the distance; a frozen, gruesome testament to the wilds we had entered. It was beautiful, in a dastardly way. I could swear it was mocking us.

Ice was everywhere. Chucks of ice bobbed in the blue-grey waters around us, like marshmallows in a hot chocolate (blue hot chocolate? blueberry-flavored hot chocolate?).

And, needless to say, it was freezing cold, like the air itself had it out for us, the wind a stinging knife attack.

Our little boat floated into this environment, the marshmallow-ice chunks occasionally bumping into the sides of it, and the mountain of an iceberg before us, like we were a cork in a bathtub, the a small bathtub toy, and the one most likely to be sank by the vengeful two-year-old taking the bath.

"Well, we're about here, all y'all ready?" John, the leader of our expedition, tried to sound cheerful, but we could hear the subdued awe in his voice. We had no idea what we were getting into. We, all of us, gave silent nods, adjusting packs, looking into each others' eyes and away from them, staring back at that mountain.

"Think we'll find what we're looking for?" asked Richard.

John gave him a grim little smirk. "Think we won't?"

Richard shrugged.

Our boat bobbed along slowly, the motor put-put-putting along in the thick, icy ocean, and that mountain got closer.

Reaching it was less climactic than I assumed it would be. One soft thump and we'd made it to the iceberg, and we were anchoring our boat to it, and the team was climbing out. Silent. Grim. Determined? Maybe.

They call us nuts for believing in sea monsters. But when we all stepped off, and that mountain shook, and shuttered, and I heard that deep groan, I knew it was real.

"Think we won't?" Indeed. If we would only be so lucky.

The mountain of ice, rising out of the fog, had been waiting for us. Something was hiding in the depths of its icy heart, and here we were to find it. But we all knew, though none of us felt the urge to verbalize it: it was going to find us.