The bitter cold—which ranged, last January, from around seventeen degrees Fahrenheit (not so different from winter in New York City) to a brutal negative twenty-eight—initially hampered Mahaney’s ability to meet locals around town. During the “day,” he would see people making hurried trips to work or to the grocery store; at night, the streets were deserted. Mahaney traipsed around in the dark, photographing buildings and cars caked with layers of snow. In his photographs, which are collected in a new volume from Trespasser, Utqiagvik looks abandoned. Dogs materialize as quiet, watchful shadows, or else with teeth savagely bared. Other living things barely make an appearance, though there are hints of humanity: stale light shining weakly through windows encrusted with ice, or headlights on a road. There is only one portrait in the entire series, of a young man dressed in a wrestling singlet, crouching down as if about to begin a fight. His face comes as something of a shock: after so many photographs of darkness and ice, the warmth of the man’s skin and the interior setting feel disorientingly out of place.