With the temperature hovering just above thirty and a cool wind streaming out of the west you would think this day better suited for mid-March than late April. “The winter cannot go on this way”, they repeatedly tell me but as anomalies go in my life, this one takes the cake. The incessant onslaught of winter storms and cold weather continue to turn me against a previously loved season and I dream of spring every chance I get. But alas, we are stuck, almost literally in my driveway yesterday, stuck in its grasp and the most we can do is make the best of it.
A few weeks ago a friend from work finally convinced me to go out and get my annual fishing license. It was not that I was hesitant because I didn’t care to fish but rather because money is tighter than ever. And so I did, heeding his words that the fish I would catch and the bounty I could bring home would pay for the license in no time. And as a matter of fact an annual pass for a non-resident was a measly $46, how can one argue with that? So I packed up my cameras, said goodbye to the dog and headed out the door, completely unaware of what was to come.
With the warming sun combating the cool breeze I just tried to take in my first ride on a snowmobile; a machine with incredible power and surprising mobility. We had already dove off hillsides that would have sent a quad tumbling and skimmed across ice and slush that at times had me questioning the safety of this endeavor, a thawed out river working its way towards us less than 200 yards away. But the trip was most enjoyable and after a few short-cuts and some fresh snow we arrived at our destination.
Initially, I didn’t know what to expect. As we began to look for holes drilled by others I quickly realized this was not a sit and wait game. Perhaps in the depths of winter when winter breezes bring the wind chill to an oppressive -20 a small shelter and some heating source would seem prudent but here, in the midst of a warm April afternoon, holes are abound and jumping around is the name of the game. Even so, my friend pulls out to auger to drill in his "best" spots and we are off and running.
The size of the fishing rods are almost comical; only about 12 inches long they look as if they were made for a small child, not a full grown man. But in the end they are practical and with small fish, steady winds, and the constant hole hopping, they serve their purpose well. We use mealworms as bait and a little device called a Vexilar to detect fish. It’s almost like a fish finder, detecting with variations in color and size what is below us in the 30+ feet of water; given that it can detect my tiny worm at 25 feet, you can be fairly confident in its accuracy. As fish come in you begin to find yourself caught between the world of feeling for the “bite” and watching a small digital detection screen, somewhere between your grandfather’s fishing trips and an 80’s style video game. While I’m still not sure whether this would technically constitute cheating I see that in this case, where a man is feeding his family, it’s a compromise. Needless to say, it certainly is fun.
Before I can quite get a handle on the operation the oldest of his boys has already snagged four fish and is proudly gloating to his dad who in turns vows to make a comeback (after he is done drilling a few more holes). I meanwhile can see the fish in my little device yet find quickly my “closing” abilities need some work. However, with a few quick tips on pace and rhythm I pull up my first panfish, a crappie (pronounced CROP-IE) to my utter delight. It is small yet beautiful. From the chilled water in this lake and up through 25 inches of ice it has found its way onto my hook and up to my side. But I have barely a moment to enjoy before the fish is swiped up and thrown into a bucket, “35 more to go” he says and I am back to hole hopping.
With the sun warming my face I am down to only a light jacket. As we sit on the lake the sun moves across the lake exemplifying the would be spring sky. I continue to catch fish and while my technique is far from perfected, I find myself enticing more and more fish to bite. Or perhaps, which is more likely the case, it’s simply become later in the afternoon and the fish are raring to go; I prefer the former. But what I realize throughout this process is that the two boys treat this trip as something habitual, almost perfunctory, but no doubt enjoying the experience in their own way. They share stories of the untold numbers of fish reeled in earlier this week and of their trophies caught on the bigger lakes; the younger one of only eight boasting about a 29 inch walleye he caught this past summer. Their love of the outdoors and fishing is almost ingrained in them. I believe I got more joy out of that than actually fishing myself.
With the sun dipping below the tree line we packed up our bags and headed back home, just short of ten fish each and our limits. I would arrive at their house, grab a few cans of generic beer and head downstairs to clean fish. In this moment I was witness to another kind of ritual that was equally engaging and novel to me. The father of these boys and my good friend began to show me how to fillet these fish, his fastidious and programmed movements quickly turning a small fish into a meal. He talked about the weight of his knife, the flex of its blade, and proudly pointed out the two new ones he had bought for his boys, both embossed with their initials.
In this dim cellar below the main floor deer antlers, arrows, hooks, lures, and reloading equipment litter the tables and shelves; an environment that would make any hunter smile. With a few beers, the radio fading in and out, and the warmth from the wood burning outside I felt myself winding down. When all the fish were cleaned and the carcasses removed a few pieces of crumpled up newspaper made quick work of the excess fish mix on the cutting boards. The knife was wiped dry, the lights turned out, and the tedious work complete.
We would sit down to a dinner of venison, sliced thin and cooked over the stove. A few more beers would cement the evening and a Saturday afternoon turned into night was over. I drove home with fish in my truck, meat in my belly, and another adventure to reflect on. I think there will certainly be some more fishing in my future and now the only question is, when do I get to do it again?
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