I have been assured by experienced ice-fisherpeople that a mere 2 inches of ice can support a person, but this winter has been cold enough that our lake of choice (the site of an entire ice fishing derby) had about 8 inches of ice on top of it, penetrable only with a gas-powered auger. I don't own an auger, gas-powered or otherwise, but fortunately, many avid ice-fisherpeople in our area do and they were happy to make holes in the ice for us.
Chainsaws work too, by the way, but no self-respecting, pragmatic New Englander would think of using a chainsaw when, not only will the saw get wet, but inexpensive tools are available to make holes of the perfect size and shape without risk to limb or saw. Chainsaws are for cutting wood, not ice, or so I'm told.
I've never had any luck fishing. I caught a minnow once with my uncles when I was a little kid, but that was only luck as I speared the poor little guy, swimming through some grass. I caught a fish at a trout farm, too, but that counts even less than catching the minnow.
However, I've inherited various fishing poles and tackle over the years and give fishing a shot in some form or another every summer with the kids. Gabriel especially likes the idea of fishing and begs regularly to go. We still never catch anything. Not one to give up, though, I broke out the rods and tackle at 7:00 Saturday morning, rounded up the kids, bundled up the wife, took a thermos of coffee, and headed to the lake.
As we all piled out of the car and grabbed our fishing poles, I had to wonder why people were chuckling. We weren't dressed in the survival gear everyone else seemed to be wearing, but I thought we looked respectable enough. I didn't think my fishing reputation preceded me, but we do live in an area where a lot of people are pretty good at living off the land, so maybe I just had the look of an unsuccessful fisherman.
It wasn't until our friend Jason (who was helping run the fishing derby and had invited us down) came over to us and said that we wouldn't need our rods that I really became confused. Were we going to spear the fish? Break out the unused chainsaws and rip them to shreds? Jason said that he and his dad had plenty of equipment for us.
"You can use those poles if you really want, but they're a little long. Most poles are only about this long," he said, holding his hands about a foot apart. The light went on then, as I imagined trying to get my line into a 6 inch hole 7 feet away from me and I quickly put the poles back in the car.
This was about the time that the real genius of ice fishing (despite the 25 degree temperature on the lake with bitter winds blowing off the ice that really made me question the advisability of our family adventure) became apparent. Most people, it turns out, don't even bother with poles at all. They simply use "tip-ups." Tip-ups are slick little spring-loaded flags that sit over your holes, dangling your bait in the water; when a fish grabs the bait, the flag pops up, you grab the line, and you've got yourself a fish!
This seemed like the answer for me: fishing that even I couldn't screw up. The fish just come to you! People were sitting in lawn chairs on the ice, sitting inside tents, building campfires (yes, on the ice) and cooking on portable grills, while their tip-ups sat over their holes. This could actually be a lot of fun if it wasn't so frickin' cold. It took me about 15 seconds to realize why everyone else looked like they were ready to climb K2.
Within an hour, Noah had snot icicles on then end of his nose. Fortunately, ice fishing is not the sort of sport enjoyed by the average high school girl, so he didn't have to worry about picking up a date on the ice, but he was over it. Luckily for him, the lake happens to be behind the high school, so as the snot icicle grew longer, I took pity on him and let him hang out in my office. The heat is broken in there currently and runs constantly, no matter what the thermostat setting, so said snot icicle thawed quickly at 80 degrees.
Within 2 hours, all of my hot coffee was gone and we hadn't caught a single fish. Flags were popping around us, but none of our three holes managed to produce anything more than ice that Gabriel kept scooping out with a special ladle (also, apparently, invented for the sole purpose of scooping ice from fishing holes created by augers invented for the sole purpose of making holes for fishing through ice).
Someone had made a giant Vat-O'-Clam Chowder. I've never eaten clam chowder at 9:30 in the morning before, but it was incredible. I'm still undecided whether it was genuinely good or I was just so bloody cold that anything capable of warming me from the inside out was a gift from God. I think it was a little bit of both.
We were pushing three hours and I had to get back to the house to meet with a couple of contractors. No, really, this wasn't just an excuse to get the hell off the frozen lake and thaw out in front of my pellet stove at home. Really. I swear.
Colby decided to stay and man our holes since several of his friends were there. The rest of us got in the car as fast as we could, tacitly agreeing that our next fishing trip would be in the spring. Late spring.
One particular point of interest on our way to the car: Gabriel and I both needed a bathroom break, so we hit the porta-potty. This particular porta-potty had one of the little urinals attached to the side, making, thankfully, for some very speedy cold-weather peeing. The bottom of the urinal, though, was filled with salt, placed there to keep the urine from freezing. I thought that was a nice touch.
I came back to get Colby a couple hours later, fully expecting to have a tasty bass or trout for dinner waiting. I shouldn't have been surprised, however, when he informed me that we hadn't caught anything. Not a single fish.
I think I may leave ice fishing to the heartier New Englanders. Gabriel, however, is already planning our next expedition, this time involving canoes, the minute the ice thaws this spring.
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