Nothing about Aoiike was planned. The pond lies outside Biei in Hokkaido, in northern Japan, and it exists because Mount Tokachi is a volcano the town has to defend itself against. In 1988 engineers laid a dam of concrete blocks across the Biei river to hold back mudflows, and the water that backed up behind it drowned a larch plantation where it stood. The bleached trunks are still standing in it. The colour is a second accident, and it is not made here at all. About two and a half kilometres up the valley, groundwater bursts out of cracks in a cliff face at Shirahige Falls and drops into the river carrying dissolved aluminium, in particles fine enough to scatter blue light. From the bridge above the falls you can watch the river already running that impossible milk-blue, before it ever reaches the dam. The pond is only the place where the water was made to stand still.
The blue is not always there. Meltwater and heavy rain wash the aluminium out and leave the water a milky grey, so June and October give you the deepest and most dependable colour. It wants direct sun: glass at dawn, full cobalt by midday, the shade under the trunks swinging toward green as the sun climbs. Late in October the planted larch on the slope behind turns amber, and the season's first snow usually lands on it while the water below is still open and blue. Then winter takes it completely. From December there is nothing to look at; ice and snow have the surface, and the town lights the bare trunks after dark instead, cycling slowly through white and blue. In winter you photograph the pond's skeleton rather than the pond. The short path along the water's edge is where the accident gives itself away. From one angle the trunks are a random thicket; twenty paces on they snap into the straight rows of the forestry plot they actually were. Where the water is shallow you can follow them on down under the surface.