I still remember the sharp, icy wind brushing against my face as I walked toward the shoreline of Nyda, a small village tucked deep inside northwest Siberia. I had been told there was something unusual—something almost unbelievable—waiting on the beach that morning. But nothing prepared me for what I saw. Spread across the Gulf of Ob were thousands of perfectly rounded snowballs, scattered like giant pearls left behind by the sea.
Some were as small as tennis balls, while others were nearly a meter wide—big enough that I had to stretch both arms around one to gauge its size. For a moment, it didn’t even feel real. The entire beach looked like a scene from a fantasy film, a place where nature had decided to play sculptor for a day.
At first glance, these snowballs looked man-made, as if someone had spent hours shaping them one by one. But the villagers told me the truth: no human had created them. This breathtaking scene was entirely natural. The Gulf of Ob had been just cold enough, with the perfect mix of wind, ice crystals, and gentle waves, to roll flakes of snow repeatedly until they formed smooth, round spheres. It was as if the ocean itself had decided to craft these giant snow marbles.
As I walked among them, the crunch of frozen sand beneath my boots echoed in the silence. The air felt heavy with the kind of cold that seeps deep into your bones, yet I couldn’t help but stop every few steps to admire the sight. Each snowball was slightly different—some textured, some smooth, some hollow inside from swirling wind patterns. Together, they covered the beach like an endless field of frozen orbs.
A local elder approached me with a smile, his fur hood dusted with frost. He told me these snowballs didn’t appear every year—they were rare, almost mysterious. Only when specific natural conditions aligned perfectly did the Gulf of Ob perform this quiet miracle. Hearing his words made the moment even more special. I wasn’t just looking at snow. I was witnessing a rare event shaped by time, temperature, and the subtle dance of Arctic winds.
I knelt beside one of the largest snowballs—a massive sphere nearly three feet across—and placed my gloved hand against its icy surface. It felt smooth, almost polished, like it had been rolled again and again until it reached a perfect shape. I imagined how long nature had worked on it, how many soft waves had nudged it gently across the frozen shoreline.
As the sun began to set, the entire beach started to glow. The snowballs reflected the light in soft gold and blue shades, turning the Gulf of Ob into a shimmering winter wonderland. It was a view I knew I’d never forget. There are moments in life that remind you how strangely beautiful the world can be—and standing among those giant Siberian snowballs was one of them.
Even now, when I think of Nyda, I don’t just picture cold winds or remote landscapes. I remember that beach filled with snow spheres as far as my eyes could see, and the quiet certainty that nature still holds surprises we can’t even imagine.
