The swan is such a majestic bird, with attitude, dignity, and, above all, grace. Tchaikovsky opened our eyes to this fact 140 years ago, and subsequent generations of celebrated stage choreographers have reinforced our adoration for the swan. The ballet probably forged the notion that swans are at home dancing in the snow and ice.

Russia, who gave the world Swan Lake, has earned the right to dictate climatic associations. Just as Doctor Zhivago could never have been filmed in the summer, swans are surely best photographed in the bitter winter. It is the winter that personifies Russia and Northern Asia, not the summer.

The romanticist within me had a preconception of where I could take a strong swan image, and the twin forces of research and luck came together shortly before 8:30 a.m. on the frozen ice of Lake Kussharo in Northern Hokkaido. My central premise was that there should be as much white in the picture as possible—white from the snow, white from the ice, and, of course, white from the whooper swan’s pristine plume of feathers. The greater the cocktail of whites, the greater the possibility of an image that could be ethereal as well as evocative. My approach was to create a dream, not necessarily report on reality.

In one small section of shore on Lake Kussharo, hot springs melt away the ice at the lakeside and the swans come in large numbers over the winter. I wanted as much contextually in the image as possible and therefore used an extreme wide-angle lens. This meant getting fairly wet, but the water was warm for me too.