There is an element of magic to ice fishing. Those who have never considered the entertainment and meditative value inherent in staring wistfully into a hole augered through frozen water say I am daft for thinking this, but no other winter activity allows me so much enjoyment with so little gear or effort.
Indeed, over the years I have given up ice skating, snow forts and skiing and I am finally ready to admit the aging legs of both me and my dog will necessitate giving up pheasant hunting as well. Were it not for ice fishing, in winter my kin would one day find me in sweatpants either comatose or eating donuts and slobbering in front of the television after a three-day marathon viewing of a soap opera I once found repulsive.
Spring through fall, I expect to catch fish because I can pick my presentation with a careful eye to weather, structure, depth, temperature, and time of day. When I am dunking a maggot-tipped Swedish Pimple through a six-inch ice hole in late winter, however, there is more chance than technique involved. And I like that, because as I age, I am more inclined to view fishing as a leisurely pursuit than a quest.
Besides persistence and the fact that God watches over fools and small children, there is no reason why I should catch fish through the ice. I don’t have a depth finder or an underwater camera, and one hole in the ice looks the same as another. Everyone uses virtually the same thing and fishes the same acre of lake. There are 628 other acres out there on a given lake where the fish can feed, but I always go to the same spot I was at last week.
Hopefully, an 8-inch perch will eventually come twisting up out of the darkness to wriggle beside the hole I have drilled, her shimmering colors enhanced by her contrast to the ice. That is part of the magic, this sudden emergence into the light, and my joy exceeds by far the simplicity of the act.
Some days, fish by the dozens will be taken by just one person from only one hole, and the rest of the frozen-nose brigade might just as well have augered through the two feet of snow in their back yards. Some will go home, but most will gather their gear and wander, eyes down, in an apparent haphazard path, studying cracks and bumps in the ice as if they have inside information concerning the correlation between icy structure and fishy hangouts. Magically, they’ll soon find themselves 10 feet from the hot hole. “Doing any good?” they ask innocently as they take up their auger and begin to drill without waiting for a reply.
Oddly, I like ice fishing even when there are no fish. Television puts me in the mood for a nap, but I can focus on a tiny bobber for hours, tensed for the telltale nervousness of water that says a perch has nudged my offering and may have other, greater intentions. If it doesn’t though, it’s okay. On the ice I go inside myself for both entertainment and warmth and have found I care for my company and my opinions a great deal.
“Beats sittin’ at home” is a refrain you hear often from ice fishermen. It’s as if we must apologize for our insanity, justify our presence on frozen water when the temperature is in the low teens and more civilized people are lounging before a warm fire with a mug of Starbucks and the newspaper.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little vicarious adventure on a cold day,” my wife would remind me as I headed out the door. She liked to fish but not in the winter.
“Right,” I’d say. “I’ll be back after dark. I want to catch the evening bite. I’ll get that sidewalk shoveled tomorrow.”
“Have a good time, then,” she’d say, smiling sincerely and going back to her book, almost unreasonably happy to see me go.
Ice fishing. No hassle, no guilt. Pure magic.