Christmas trees, Santa Claus, stockings hung by the chimney with care, eggnog, gaily wrapped parcels, candy-canes, ice fishing . . . Ice fishing? Yes, ice fishing. Another Christmas tradition that started five years ago when I received a phone call from Roy, my fishing accomplice for the past thirty years. "Let's go ice fishing tomorrow." Considering the mild weather, and the alternative, joining my wife on an excursion to the malls for post-Christmas bargains, made ice fishing sound like a hell of a deal!
"I'm going fishing tomorrow," I said to my wife after I hung up the phone.
"Great! I'll pack a lunch," she retorted.
I'm not much fun at after-Christmas sales.
Not "Merry Christmas!" but, "I got bait!" the season's greeting I received this year over the phone from my fellow conspirator, "Eight o'clock tomorrow, OK?"
"Well, I don't know, " I replied satirically. "I'll have to contemplate my alternatives. Ice fishing, mall hopping? Fighting trophy white fish or fighting bargain mad shoppers? Swapping fish stories or swapping Christmas presents?"
My contemplation was cut short by an interjection from my wife. "If you're not going fishing tomorrow, then you'll come shopping with me, I need help with the parcels, and you'd better shave, and wear some decent clothes. We'll have to leave early to get a head-start on the crowds, and . . ."
"I'm going fishing." My hasty reply, before she could add more to her list.
"Great! I'll pack a lunch."
Some things never change.
Food is important on these annual outings. Eating takes the boredom out of ice fishing, when the fish do not cooperate. My wife prepares our provisions, never a simple lunch, it is a banquet. Her Viking ancestors would be envious of the food I haul to my truck. She packs a large cooler to the top with: roast beef sandwiches, ham sandwiches, chicken sandwiches, turkey sandwiches, marshmallow-peanut butter sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, Christmas cookies, cake, oranges, apples, bananas, chocolates, after dinner mints and more. If we stayed for three weeks, we would never feel the pangs of hunger. And then there is the coffee, three large thermoses full, strong, hot, rich in heavy cream, and sweetened to perfection. Picture my lovely wife in her Santa Claus apron, early in the morning the day after Christmas leaning over a steaming pot on the stove, sampling the brew, adding a little more cream, a bit more sugar, "Ah, that's perfect," she says, pouring the coffee into the waiting thermoses. I am a bit suspect of her motives however, with less to eat I may be home early enough to join her on the second shift of mall hopping.
It is white fish we relentlessly pursue, between eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Because white fish forage in loose schools, the same criterion is present when after these fish as it is with buying realestate: location, location, location. At times one spot will produce fish after fish, while a hole drilled a mere ten feet away will not produce a bite.
Driving down the generous slope to the lake basin, we could see the early arrivals on the frozen expanse before us. Clusters of tents and shanties were scattered about the lake, resembling small prairie towns. These clusters gave the impression that ice fishermen are a social lot. Besides providing a respite from the morning cold, the dark interiors of the shanties allow the fishermen to peer into the water and view the silent, alien world beneath them. These shanties are all shapes and sizes, but the one-man tent has become the most popular and, like the model T Ford, they come in all available colors, any shade of black. Amidst the shanties and tents, are the hardier fishermen who brave the cold and wind, using five gallon white plastic pails as a catch-all: tackle box, creel, and stool. I mentioned one might get the impression that ice fishermen are a social lot, but in fact, they prefer a solitary fishing style. Akin to finding a nugget in a gold rush, a fish flopping on the ice promotes claim jumping. A smart prospector will not broadcast his success nor will the successful fishermen. These ice fishers will do overt things to disguise their prosperity, otherwise there would be a small shanty town erected around them in no time flat.
They hide their bounty, putting their catch in plastic pails, then sit on the pails using them as stools. Or they might hide their spoils under the snow. Some take their catch back to their vehicle and stow the fish in black plastic bags and then conceal them behind the spare tire. They would not make such effort to hide their catch from a game warden if it were over the limit, but these fishermen are challenged by a greater adversary, other fishermen! One must be equal to the task when prying information from these successful ice fishermen. "How's the fishing?" a pointless question, because any reply will be meaningless. After all, if they reply that the fish are not biting, maybe the fish are not biting. Or, maybe they are catching lots of fish and the fish are well hidden under the snow, behind their spare tire, or in the white plastic bucket the fisherman is sitting on.
Body language; that's the only way to get results, because these other fishermen are liars. They lie. "Are they biting?" one might ask. They've been fishing since dawn but they'll reply, "I dunno, I just started." Don't be discouraged by this remark. Remember, body language. There are things to look for when quizzing one of these solitary fishermen. Do they look you in the eye when they reply to "Any luck?" or do they fidget? Do they stop fishing as you approach? A sure sign that the fish are biting, for they fear they might get a bite while you are standing there, thus exposing the lie. The seasoned ice fishermen will lie, looking deep into your eyes. They will continue to fish, jigging furiously, a technique that deters the fish from biting. These seasoned liars may even offer you a cup of coffee, after all, would anyone who was catching fish by the white plastic bucketful want you to stand around having a cup of coffee? . . . not likely. I have accepted this offer a couple of times from some of these fishermen and have been handed an unwashed cup that previously contained, or may still contain bait. . . old bait.
I am convinced these guys keep a special cup handy just in case some fool takes them up on their offer. Sometimes, they will try to steer you wide, offering advice that will have you on a wild goose chase far from their spot, suggesting some lame brain excuse as to why they haven't moved there themselves. I offer this advice to those who would claim-jump, Roy and I prefer to find our own "hot spot" and would never stoop to cash in on the exploration of others.
We drove slowly through the hamlet, by the rows of empty cottages, past the dead end sign, down to the lake access. A left turn took us to the bay we had visited on years past. This year, because the winds had drifted deep snow against the bank, we were unable to drive our truck onto the ice. If we were to fish here, we would have to carry our gear. Not an easy feat, we had two one-man tents, two power augers, a large cooler, three thermoses, a couple of five gallon pails, two tackle boxes, ice skimmers, and sundry other ice fishing accessories. Roy and I deliberated silently for a few minutes, looking at the only fisherman on the bay, a hardy type sitting on a white five gallon pail.
Roy was first to speak. "May as well get at it. Not going to catch any thing sitting here."
It took two and a half trips to get all our stuff to the location on the lake we had selected. That was two trips for me, three for Roy. While Roy made the last trip back to the truck, I assembled an ice auger. Balancing the auger on its bit, I studied it a few seconds, then adjust the choke to full choke. I steadied my nerves anticipating the small two-cycle engine bursting into action with the first release of the starter cord. My left hand grasped the handle that surrounds the little engine, my right hand on the grip of the starter cord. A gentle tug on the cord to take up the slack of the recoil starter . . . then a firm, deliberate pull . . . Nothing. For the second time, I administered a gentle tug to take up the slack of the recoil starter . . . then a firm, quick pull . . . The engine remained lifeless. Perhaps a little less choke? An adjustment was made, then a gentle tug to take up the slack of the recoil starter, followed by a firm deliberate pull . . . Maybe no choke at all, a not so gentle tug to take up the slack of the recoil starter followed by three rapid desperate yanks . . . It wouldn't start!
Never mind the gentle tug to take up the slack, and the hell with the choke, it was time for action! Twenty uninterrupted rapid pulls. Only the pain in my arm put a stop to this vigorous onslaught. I studied the engine again, catching my breath, my left hand leaned the auger away from my body, my right hand pulled the zipper on my snow suit down to my waist. The engine was idle but I was heating up. Since the advent of the power ice auger, this is how I get my exercise, pulling on that damn starter cord. Eventually, failure accepted, we assembled the other auger, the one we should have assembled in the first place. Strange, it doesn't matter which one we assemble first, it is always the other one that runs. With the auger purring, sputtering, and coughing along, we drilled a few holes in the ice. Selecting the most promising looking holes, we set up our one-man tents and dropped lures into the holes, then jigged the lures up and down, to attract our quarry. After a few unsuccessful minutes, we moved to another hole, then to another. To the alcoholic, "one drink is too many, a thousand not enough," to us ice fishermen, one hole is not enough and we always drill too many. So it went for the first hour or so.
Patient fishermen we are, but after a while without a bite, it was time to have a coffee, a sandwich and review our strategy.
"I'll bet they're in deeper water."
"I think we should be closer to the weeds."
"Pour me another cup of coffee."
"Drill a hole in front of that pier."
"Is that a ham sandwich?"
"Do you have any Grey Poupon?"
"Pass me an after dinner mint."
"I wonder if that guy over there is catching any?"
A couple of hours later, unable to eat any more and without a fish, desperation set in. It was time for a recognizance trip.
The other fisherman was a few hundred yards away from us. He had been there when we arrived and had not changed locations for some time. "Hmm, I wonder?" I wondered out loud. Roy offered that old axiom, "he who hesitates don't get fish for supper." Then, "Why don't you mosey over there and see what you can find out?"
I moseyed over. One moseys when seeking information- any deliberate walk will betray your intent and put the experienced fisherman on the defensive.
"You've been here for quite awhile, must be biting?" I opened.
"Well I've been here for a few hours all right but I just got started. Haven't had a bite yet." He just kept on fishing, sitting there on a white plastic bucket.
"Say, you're jigging that hook a bit fast, aren't you?"
"Care for a cup of coffee?" he said, offering me a suspicious looking cup.
"No thanks, I have bait," I said, casually walking around checking for telltale signs of his success.
"I'd be careful about kicking those mounds of snow if I were you," he warned. A word from the wise here, be careful which lump of snow you kick, sometimes it is a block of ice that is hidden beneath the snow.
"Another slow day," he said, looking me straight in the eye.
"If you jig that hook a bit slower you might get a bite," I said.
"They were sure biting by the red cottage yesterday. I'd move there myself but I promised my wife I wouldn't stray too far from the parking lot," he countered.
"Is that right?" I said.
I limped back to Roy, reasonably satisfied that the fishing was no better over there than it was here.
"How's e' makin' out?" Roy asked.
"Not a bite. It took some doing, but I finally squeezed some information out of him. The white fish are biting just in front of that red cottage." I pointed further down the shoreline a few hundred yards.
With renewed vigor we disassembled our tents, packed up everything but the auger that would not start earlier, and moved a few hundred yards further down the lake in front of the red cottage.
"We'll pick up that auger on the way back. No sense in taking it with us now," Roy said.
"I feel a bit sorry for the other guy; imagine his wife telling him where he could fish. That'll be the day. Besides, how would she ever know anyway," I commented as I pulled the starter cord on auger number two for the twenty-ninth time.
"Some guys," Roy said shaking his head.
"Wanna give'r a try?" I leaned the auger toward Roy.
Roy fiddled with the choke and pulled the starter cord furiously a dozen times. "I'll go get the other auger," he gasped.
Roy brought back auger number one, adjusted the choke to full choke, administered a gentle tug to take up the slack of the recoil starter and gave a deliberate pull. The little two cycle engine burst into action.
"There's nothing like a well-tuned machine," he said as the auger twisted into the ice.
Every once in a while, between drilling new holes, I looked back up the lake at that lonely figure sitting on his white plastic bucket. How envious he must be that we are fishing in his coveted spot.
He had nothing to be envious about, we hadn't had a bite. I also noticed how far we had moved down the lake from the parking lot. We would have to quit early if we didn't want to pack up in the dark.
The sun was setting behind me when I arrived at our truck with the first load of gear. The other fisherman was also in the parking lot, packing up his truck. I walked over to him. Perhaps I could make him feel better if he knew the fish weren't biting in front of the red cottage today either.
"We should have taken your wife's advice ourselves, that red cottage sure is a long way from the parking lot," I started. "Heck of a haul and not a bite. . . ." Then I saw the fish tails sticking out of his white plastic bucket.
"How did you make out?" I said weakly, realizing I had been scammed.
"Limited out. You guys should have moved over by me, instead of moving so far down the lake. The white fish were five deep, I released everything under five pounds. Heck, they hit anything I put down the hole. There must have been a thousand or more down there. By golly, no sooner I'd let one go, I'd get another. The fish were fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of getting caught. Mostly big ones. Why. . . ."
He was still expounding as I started back to the red cottage for another load.