Lunatic Fringe

There is a misconception among people who know me that I enjoy ice fishing.  I spend enough time on the ice to portray the image of an avid ice angler, but the truth is that I don’t really “like” to ice fish.  I do it so I don’t kill anyone during homicidal rage inflicted by a severe bout of cabin fever.  Those of you who live in southern climates cannot fully grasp this dire concept of cabin fever until you live in the upper Midwest for at least a decade (or a lifetime).  Visiting here in the winter, even frequently, cannot give you the sense of despair caused by mind-numbing overcast skies and bitterly cold temperatures for months on end.  Sometimes the only cure is to therapeutically shank a crappie and then eat its’ sweet flesh from a grease popping cast-iron skillet.

I suppose there are other things I could do to battle cabin fever.  My wife is a runner.  She treats her cabin fever by maintaining a healthy lifestyle and elevating her heart rate.  In the winter, she cross country skis and snowshoes.  I love my wife, but I detest running.  I elevate my heart rate only when I have the chance of bringing home something to show for my time.  I once considered taking up responsibility as a hobby.  But responsible people don’t have time to hunt and fish, so I have ruled that idea out.

There are many irritations that come along with ice fishing.  Like when your minnow bucket freezes.  Or when your hole freezes (which I am told is a “personal problem”).  Or when your 10-year-old freezes.  Or your ice shelter blows away.  Or when your seven-year-old falls in an auger hole.  Or when you can’t feel your fingers and you need to tie on a one-billionth ounce jig on negative 2-pound test, invisible line and your eyes are watering because the wind is blowing 30 mph gales.  But it’s the challenges that keep us coming back.  Right?

Last winter, my boys and I fished our local, Michigan waters one to two times a week, sometimes more.  Towards the end of the season there was 24 inches of ice.  I know that pales in comparison to the thickness of the ice in places farther north, but it sucks nonetheless.  I broke down and forked out the cash for a power auger.  It turned out to be one of the best impulsive decisions I have ever made.  It’s hard to stop drilling holes when you have a brand-new power auger.  The residents of the lakes wait in their homes watching out their bay windows until we have made Swiss cheese of the entire basin.  Then the lake dwellers descend like vultures from their houses and start fishing any holes that we aren’t (which is usually about 100 holes, plus or minus).  

Early ice has always held a sense of novelty for me.  It feels surreal when you take that first step onto the ice for the season.  I drill a lot of holes during this time of year, checking the thickness every fifteen or so feet.  It is always disconcerting when I find pockets of thinner ice, even if it is thick enough to support my weight.  I end up drilling holes more like a person suffering from OCD.  About three years ago my oldest son fell through thin ice.  He had gone to relieve himself near a cattail marsh.  He gave us a big scare, but fortunately he was only in about two feet of water and he was able to climb out and walk back to the ice shelter.

Children are resilient.  I have three boys, currently their ages are 8, 11, and 14.  I have not been able to conclude if they like to ice fish or not.  They rarely turn down a chance to go run around on a frozen lake, but then again, I don’t either.  Every trip includes moments of fighting, screaming, and complaining, but when it’s time to go they don’t want to leave.  Two years ago, my youngest son managed to step in an empty ice hole first thing in the morning in the dark and stuck his leg in up to his crotch in the frigid water.  The air instantly froze the left leg of his snow pants stiff as a board.  Somehow, because he pulled his leg out so fast and he had rubber boots and waterproof snow pants that cinch at the ankle he remained to some extent fairly dry.  He refused to leave and insisted, “It’s fine, Dad.  It’s fine.”, while he dragged around his immoveable leg.  His pant leg remained frozen while we got the shelter set up and the heater on inside where he managed to thaw out.  

Regardless, first ice is fun.  It creates something to do after hunting season dies down.  The ice is thin enough to easily break through with a lightweight hand auger or a spud bar.  But by mid-January I begin to get “edgy” and the novelty of first ice wears thin on my patience.  By February my eyes begin to glaze over and I develop a twitch under my left eye.  I cover myself in a dark, heavy blanket of irritability and hide in the bathroom with old issues of Outdoor Life, In-Fisherman, and a 2003 edition of Cabela’s Catalog.  I try to fill my time researching lake maps of places I would rather be and make ridiculous lists of tackle and electronics I will never be able to afford.  I watch the barometric pressure rise and fall, by the hour, on the hour.  It bottomed out at 29.93 inches at 8:00 AM.  Now it’s 30.04 inches and it’s 6:00 PM…I over analyze things.  “Where can I find a 16-inch crappie around here?”

When I feel like I can’t stand it any longer, I gather up my gear and search out a few panfish.  Many times, I find myself on the ice before I realize what I’m doing.  It’s like my body leads me there in a “fight-or-flight” reflex.  I probe the ice with my sonar for pods of roaming crappies.  Many times when I find them, I can catch a few, but they move too much to put up my ice shelter.  The lakes around here have very little to offer as far as structure to hold a crappie’s attention for long and thus they form roving packs of blood thirsty “coyote-crappies” looking for a defenseless “rabbit-minnow”.

Sometimes I yearn for ice fishing during the summer months.  That is surely a sign that I am suffering from some form of dementia.  You folks out there that really do love this style of fishing, I’m happy for you.  Five years ago, our family started going to Florida for spring break.  It was the biggest mistake of winter blissful life.  Florida ruined me.  It made me soft.  In the winter months I write fiction, a lot of fiction.  I write about places I want to be and things I want to be doing.  Otherwise I write a dark blend of fishing, hunting, satire, horror, and tragedy.  The ironic thing is that I’m writing this story in October.  Maybe that’s because I know what’s coming in three short months.