We streak across the snowy surface of Elm Island Lake, the
humming of the snowmobile’s engine lulling me into a state of repose as I watch
the landscape pass by. Behind us, a young boy holds on and smiles with the credulous
delight we faintly remember but warmly embrace. He is tethered on to our
machine with some climbing rope and a sled; he holds on, trying to maintain his
course along our freshly blazed trail. Today we are headed out for my first ice
fishing trip, out onto this still frozen lake in search of panfish and while I
know not what to expect I look forward to something that is inherently
Minnesotan. I have a few native fishermen to guide me and as such I trust this
trip will be both amusing and a learning experience.
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?
While under most circumstances I would describe bird hunting
in my own terms, with my own voice, I have found several others over the years
who have elicited my own sense of passion; others who through their words and
pictures have transported me to the open range and put me to bed with dreams of
fall. When I find these authors, these men who capture the culture, I hold onto
them and continue to lose myself in their stories.
One such article that brought out the best in what it means
to hunt upland birds is called, “Magnificent
Obsession: Pursuing prairie chickens
may be the purest form of hunting…It’s surely the most introspective” by
Tom Davis. Published in a popular sporting magazine, Davis eloquently and cogently
wraps you up in the world of grouse, and more specifically, that of the prairie
chicken. If I had not even gotten past the cover photo (below) I would have
walked away with a smile on my face; it’s perfect, symbolizing rural America at
its finest. But alas, there is a great article that follows and the experience
is divine. From elaborating on the struggles in the field to reflecting on the
current state of grouse across the country, Davis makes us all want to head off
to the mid-west and try our hand at these elusory birds.
But enough of me, best to enjoy it for
yourself…
What has been a long, cold winter in which I have found
myself tolerating the onslaught of snow in three different states has perhaps
saved its best punch for last; the arrival of a mid-April snow storm in what is
supposed to be the time of year we are awaiting turkey season, not anticipating
icy roads. As I look to the sky I can sense that Old Man Winter is holding
tight and while his resistance is admirable he will soon fall as he always does.
It is as if he is on the edge of a cliff and his grip is flagging. While his
fingers reach and search for each and every crevice to dig themselves into, the
tremendous force of gravity will soon pull him down and give way to a new equinox.
As we await the change it is no longer a matter of if but when.
As I look back though I have little reason to complain as
this has so far been a month of firsts, a spring in which I have realized the
fulfillment of one of my most longstanding and sincere wishes; a month that
added an equally moving ripple to my wish and a month that as is by all
accounts, only half way past. I can only hope that the next two weeks live up
to the preceding two.
A few weeks ago I wrote an article entitled “Encounters of
the Wild Kind” in which I delved into the unexpected wildlife encounters we are
often confronted with in the outdoors. But there are other times in the course
of our lives in which we have these face to face meetings outside the hunting
world and find a very routine day turn into something entirely beyond words.
These days are the ones we talk about with friends for years to come as those
moments that keep the day to day living out in agrarian America exciting.
Without divulging what I do for a living I can say that I often
times find myself in the middle of nowhere, driving around in the land of no
cell service where getting your truck stuck means you and your shovel are in it
for the long haul (quick tip for rural living: make sure you have a shovel). Earlier
this week, shortly after the sun had risen I was beginning my work day when I
approached a small, inconspicuous town in east-central Minnesota. With the brakes pressing against the wheels I
could feel my rig begin to slow and then, there in front of me out of a ditch
came a broad figure, moving quickly and clearly intent on beating me across the
road. It took me only half a second to process the image but what I had just
seem emerge from the woods and take two or three bounds across the county
highway was a bobcat, my first ever.
He was beautiful and sleek, his powerful legs driving him up
across the road, his short bobbed tail following suit. His coat was lighter in
color, perfectly adapted for the winter wilderness. He moved with a speed and
art that clearly separated him from anything I had ever come across. He looked
powerful and stalwart yet realizing his vulnerability at that moment, decidedly
wanted to immerse himself in the woods once again. It was as I mentioned a
ripple, an anomaly, a break in the stillness of time as to go unseen by so many
but presenting itself right before me. That day is a blur, I’m not even sure
what I did or if I really accomplished anything but that moment was more than
enough to leave me feeling thoroughly gratified. However, I had no idea at the
time that the bobcat was only a precursor in what would soon be one a wildlife
week worth remembering.
The very next day I woke up, still picturing the cat in my
head and began my work before dawn. As the morning progressed I found myself
driving down an old dirt road and without warning I was removed from the
forests that lined the landscape and entered a stretch of open hay fields. With
the inclination to let my eyes wander I looked over to see what I had been
wanting to see since I was a teenager, what everyone should see once in their
lives; the animal that is both loved and hated and the center of much debate, a
wolf. And not some wolf kept for show or some wolf rehabilitating in a wildlife
facility but a real live, wild Minnesota wolf. The pleasure was something bordering
on ecstasy and to think about it now is to feel my cheeks tighten as a smile
works its way onto my face.
I had over the years wondered if I would actually be able to
spot a wolf if I were to come across one. You often hear these stories of
mistaken identity (a large coyote, a domestic dog) but when I laid eyes on that
animal at just over a hundred yards, I knew it instantly. His physique, size,
and stature were that of an apex predator and he looked every bit the part. His
head had weight to it, his body was muscular, his tail long, and his feet as
big as on any canine I have ever run across. And there he stood, literally,
looking dead at me, unsure whether he should run or go about his business,
everything in my head hoping for the latter. It was awe-inspiring and as it
turns out, unlike so many wildlife moments that are fleeting, he decided to
stay a while. I rolled down the window, put my seat back and watched him as the
morning moisture burned off.
I was tempted to reach back and get my camera but told
myself that the seconds wasted fumbling in the back would be precious seconds I
could never get back. I knew that I may never get this chance again and if I
was going to watch this amazing animal I was going to see him with my own eyes,
not through of that of a camera lens. And there he stayed, poking his head into
gopher holes, ignoring a group of sharp-tailed grouse dancing in the distance
behind him. He strolled along lifting his head every so often to look at me and
then back down to the ground. I just remember thinking he was so big, so unlike
anything I had ever seen in my life. It was as the Gods had seen to personally
taking my wildlife wish list and were presenting me with a gift. To whoever is
up there, all I can say is, “Thank you”.
Eventually the wolf would meander his way into a willow
stand and fade off into the distance and I had never been so happy. I stepped
out of the truck, put my hands on my head and smiled. Does it get any better?
And I have to wonder, if not for hunting, would I have ever noticed him. We,
over time, as hunters, develop a sort of peripheral vision, tuned in and locked
in to any small movements, incredibly wild in essence. But it gives us that
slight edge, that slight advantage that may just make a missed opportunity the
moment of a lifetime. This was certainly one of those moments for me. I still
can’t believe it, a wolf, a wild wolf. And despite the national conflict that
has emerged in the past 25 years there is still something to be said by
everyone in laying their eyes upon this secluded predator.
As we move onward the first will keep coming. This month is
only half over and tomorrow I make my way out onto the frozen Minnesota lakes to
drop my first line in for ice fishing. We’ll head out in the evening in search
of freshwater crappies and bluegill, a co-worker, a seasoned fisherman
preparing to show me the ropes, literally. With 30 inches of ice still bearing
down on the lake’s underbelly we are assured a measure of relaxation.
Bobcats, wolves, and ice fishing...what more could an outdoorsman
ask for?
