NBC 26 reporter Kyle Langellier says there’s a moment in winter on Lake Winnebago when the map feels like it gets rewritten, because what is normally an hour of driving around the shoreline can suddenly become a straight shot across the lake in under 20 minutes.
Langellier opens his report from Oshkosh, explaining that this week the shortcut is real, and it exists because volunteers have created what locals call an “ice highway” that connects Oshkosh to Quinney.
The concept sounds almost unbelievable if you’ve never seen it, but the way Langellier describes it, it’s not some reckless joyride across a frozen lake – it’s a carefully maintained route that people are using for everyday life, including commuting to work.
That “everyday” part is what makes this story stick, because it’s one thing to drive on ice for fun, and it’s another thing to treat it like a dependable road that saves you close to 40 minutes of driving, day after day, when the conditions allow.
Still, the report doesn’t pretend it’s risk-free, and that balance – between the usefulness of the shortcut and the reality that ice is never fully predictable – is what gives the story its tension.
The Man They Call The “Godfather” Of The Lake
Langellier says one name keeps coming up when people talk about the ice road: Don Herman, the owner of Sunk Dive and Ice Service, who has spent decades dealing with the darker side of winter travel – vehicles that don’t make it.
Herman’s description of the road is half pride, half dry humor, because he tells Langellier the ice highway is “probably better than some of the roads in Oshkosh,” which lands as a joke but also as a reminder that the volunteers take the surface seriously.
Langellier says he’s heard Herman called the “Godfather of Lake Winnebago,” and it fits, because Herman isn’t a newcomer chasing attention – he’s someone who has been rescuing cars and trucks that fall through the ice for nearly half a century.
There’s a blunt moment in Langellier’s ride-along where Herman points out a vehicle that went in not long ago, and he says it’s still on the bottom, which is the kind of statement that snaps you right back into reality if you started thinking this was all quaint and cozy.
Herman also tells Langellier that people use the ice highway “to go back and forth to work,” and he sounds a little amazed by it even after all these years, as if he still respects how unusual it is to see a frozen lake turn into a daily transportation route.
The main reason the ice road works, according to Langellier, is that it’s not just “there,” like a natural miracle; it exists because Herman and other volunteers actively shape it, guide it, and keep it usable.
How Volunteers Build A Road Where There Shouldn’t Be One
Langellier says Herman leads the volunteer team that does the hard, cold, repetitive work: plowing snow, placing bridges, and creating a marked path that drivers can follow from one side to the other.
That detail about bridges is easy to skim past, but it’s actually huge, because it suggests the volunteers are accounting for weak spots and gaps instead of pretending the lake is one solid sheet.
When Langellier asks how much time the crossing saves, Herman puts it in simple numbers: the trip across the lake takes about 10 to 15 minutes, and that time difference can turn a long commute into something that feels almost like cheating the clock.
If you’ve ever lived in a place where winter travel turns every errand into a project, you can understand why people would be drawn to a shortcut like this, especially when it’s maintained by locals who know the lake and aren’t guessing.
But the report makes it clear that the “road” is not a permanent carved line like asphalt, and that’s the part that’s both fascinating and unnerving, because it means drivers are relying on a route that can literally move under their tires.
Herman explains to Langellier that the ice road won’t be in the same place every day, and the volunteers may shift it around cracks and hazards as conditions change, which is something you’d never accept from a normal street but somehow makes sense when the street is frozen water.
Langellier says Herman told him they’ve moved the road “three, four times in one day,” which is wild to picture, because it implies constant scouting, constant measuring, and constant decision-making to keep the route as safe as it can be.
That’s a level of community effort that doesn’t get talked about enough, because people love to joke about “small-town vibes,” but this is small-town work – physical, volunteer-driven, and quietly essential for the people who rely on it.
The Tree System That Works Like A Map In The Middle Of A Lake
One of the most interesting details Langellier shares is how the ice road is marked, because it isn’t done with fancy signs or blinking arrows, but with a clever, almost old-school navigation method.
He explains that the volunteers use trees as markers, and those trees tell you where you are on the lake in a way that’s surprisingly specific.
Langellier describes how the trees lean toward the closest shore, and how a group of trees together indicates how many miles out you are, which turns the lake into a kind of living measuring tape you can read while driving.
In his report, he stands near five trees and explains that five trees marks five miles from either shore, meaning you’re at the halfway point, right in the middle of Lake Winnebago, where the world is just ice and distance.
The key warning sign, according to Langellier, is one you don’t want to see: if a tree is lying sideways, it means stay away, a blunt visual that doesn’t require any special knowledge to understand.
There’s something almost poetic about that system – nature being used to guide people across nature – but it’s also practical, because on a flat white surface it’s easy to lose orientation and get careless.
That’s why those markers matter, because in winter, confusion and overconfidence can be as dangerous as thin ice.
Why The Shortcut Is Useful, And Why It Still Makes People Nervous
Langellier’s report captures a strange truth: the ice highway is both a gift and a gamble, even with experienced people maintaining it.
It’s a gift because it takes a trip that would normally wrap around the lake and reduces it to a straight crossing, giving people more time at home, less fuel burned, and less time stuck behind slow winter traffic.
But it’s a gamble because it’s still ice, and Herman’s own life work – rescuing vehicles that fall through – proves that people don’t always judge conditions correctly.
Herman tells Langellier that “just because you use this road on Monday, Tuesday, it can change,” and that statement is the entire safety message in one sentence, because it warns against the lazy human habit of assuming yesterday’s experience guarantees today’s outcome.
In winter, especially, people fall into routines fast, and routines can trick you into thinking a situation is stable when it’s actually changing by the hour.
Langellier also notes that the road will become even more heavily used when sturgeon spearing begins in a few weeks, when thousands of people may drive across the lake daily, which raises the stakes because more traffic means more pressure, more chances for someone to ignore warnings, and more potential for catastrophe.
That’s where Herman’s caution comes in, because he reminds viewers that no ice is 100% safe, a statement that sounds obvious until you remember people are literally using this as a commute route, like it’s an ordinary street.
There’s a natural human urge to treat something useful as normal, and that’s when risk creeps in – when the frozen lake starts feeling like a permanent road and not a temporary window that could close quickly.
A Road Made Of Winter And Trust
What stands out in Langellier’s story isn’t just the novelty of driving over a lake, but the amount of trust involved, both in the volunteers and in the drivers themselves.
The volunteers trust their experience enough to plow, mark, and move the road as needed, and the drivers trust that guidance enough to put a vehicle on a surface that, in any other season, would swallow it.
That trust is earned, though, because it’s coming from someone like Don Herman, who has spent decades dealing with what happens when ice travel goes wrong, and who still chooses to help people do it as safely as possible instead of just shaking his head from shore.
The Warning Is Not To Be Afraid – It’s To Stay Humble
Langellier doesn’t make the ice highway sound like a thrill ride, and that’s important, because the real lesson isn’t “don’t ever do it,” it’s “don’t get arrogant.”
The sideways tree marker, the constant shifting around cracks, the reminder that the road changes day to day – those are all signs that the lake demands humility, even when it’s frozen solid enough for thousands of tires.
Winter does this strange thing where it tempts you into believing you’ve mastered it, and then it punishes the first person who forgets that conditions can flip fast.
Kyle Langellier’s ride-along report shows Lake Winnebago acting like a winter bridge between two communities, turning what would be an hour-long trip into a 20-minute crossing when conditions cooperate.
Don Herman, the longtime rescuer and volunteer leader, comes across as both the builder and the warning sign, because he knows better than anyone that an ice road can be safe enough to use and still dangerous enough to respect.
And maybe that’s the best way to describe the whole thing: an “ice highway” that works because people are putting real effort into it, and because the smartest ones never forget what it really is – temporary, shifting, and never something you take for granted.
Ed spent his childhood in the backwoods of Maine, where harsh winters taught him the value of survival skills. With a background in bushcraft and off-grid living, Ed has honed his expertise in fire-making, hunting, and wild foraging. He writes from personal experience, sharing practical tips and hands-on techniques to thrive in any outdoor environment. Whether it’s primitive camping or full-scale survival, Ed’s advice is grounded in real-life challenges.
