Sundance Kid

It was a blustery morning out on the ice.  The wind blew from the northwest enough to give the two-person portable shanty a rhythmic vibration as the canvas slapped against the frame.  The little buddy heater burned steadily as my mind lazily wondered from thought to thought.  Conversation was tangential, diving from Falwell’s ice fishing contest to Larry Fitzgerald taking a plunge two days ago on his UTV into Portage Lake, among other subjects.

“Man, this is one slow bite.  Got any dynamite?” I asked jokingly.

“I wish!” Karl said with a little chuckle, his bright, red beard contrasting sharply against his grey head. “Knowing our luck we’d blow ourselves up.” he added.

“You been watching that kid across the lake?  He’s been running back and forth from tip-up to tip-up for an hour.”  I asked and pointed across the lake where a shallow bay set back near some seasonal lake houses.  “I can’t tell if he’s catching anything or just trying to stay warm.”

Karl wiped his window of condensation and took a squinting look.  “That’s a long ways off.  I can hardly see.  He is running a lot.  It’s too far for me to see any flags.”

“A kid won big in the contest last year.  Maybe that’s him.” I said.

“Maybe.” Karl said looking more intently out the window now.  “I figured his dad helped a lot.”

“Well.  I guess it’s my turn to go bust the holes.” I said as I started to stand and stretch.

“Yup.” Karl said in smug agreement sitting back in his seat.

I put my gloves and hat on and zipped up my coat.  Quickly, I opened the shanty door and slid outside and just as quickly closed it back.  The air was like a knife, cutting quickly through my brown Carhartt coat and bibs.  I walked/slid to the first hole to find an eighth inch of skim ice on the top of the hole.  I chiseled out the tip-up gently with the handle of my skimmer and put it to the side.  Then, with the toe of my pack boot, I broke open the rest of the hole and scooped it out with the skimmer.

I glanced in the direction of the kid, and through watery eyes I could see him dashing from hole to hole.  Light-footed like a squirrel dancing in the sun.  Giving my attention back to my task, I slowly pulled the line up until I could see the flash of the meaty sucker minnow below and released it back down to the depths.  I gently grabbed the old wooden tip-up, checking the spool and trigger for ice buildup and placed it back into the hole.

Head down into the wind I walked the thirty-five feet to the next hole and repeated the process this time not giving attention to the kid.  After putting a fresh minnow on the last tip-up I started sliding my way back to the shanty.  As I slowly made my way back I watched in the direction of the kid and saw a crouching figure barely visible.  Then he stood with what appeared to be a fish as long as he!

“Holy Catfish!!” I yelled.

“What!?” Karl started, thrashing around in the shanty trying to get a look at me and my exasperation.

“That kid just caught a monster!  Look!”

“I can’t see anything.  This window is froze.”

“Don’t worry.” I said. “I’m sure you’ll see it tonight at the weigh-in.”

Morning turned into afternoon and by four-thirty the sun was getting low in the sky.  Karl and I managed to land a few nice pike and a dozen or so crappie throughout the day, but nothing worthy of entry into Falwell’s contest.  We decided to pack it up, head to the house, and get a bite to eat before going over to the store for the winner’s announcement at seven o’clock.

Emerging from the shanty we noticed the kid was gone. 

“He must have left when we were snoozing.” I said.

“We should have gone over there.” Karl said shaking his head.  “To see what that kid caught.”

“You’ll see him tonight,” I said assuredly.

It was dark by the time we got to my house, quickly fixed sandwiches, and got everything put away.  By the time we got to Falwell’s there wasn’t a parking spot left so we double parked it behind an old wood-sided station wagon.  As we walked in I saw a bucket of tip-ups in the back of the old car.  

Inside it was packed with people for the size of the small store.  A large group of diehards, some with their wives and kids conversed around the counter.  There was a few kids but none looked to fit the bill for the one we saw.  Some sheepishly stood by their moms and dads, while a few others wandered throughout the store looking and pawing at the lures and duck calls.  None of the children had the energy of the squirrel-like figure jumping from hole to hole early in the day.

“Who has a red F-150?” I heard Dan Falwell shout over the loudness of the crowd.

“I do!” I spoke up as if I’d won a door prize.

“Well you need to move your truck so these people can leave.” Dan said sharply.

“Ok.  Sorry.  I’m on it.” I said digging for my keys in my jeans pocket feeling a bit embarrassed.  I looked at the people and saw it was an old man and a boy of about 10-years-old.  The boy’s red hair shoved up in a cow lick and his face wind burned from the day.  The old-man looked to be in his 80s with liver spots showing on the tops of his wrinkled hands.  His faced permanently weathered from a lifetime of outdoor work and neck drawn up like a turtles’.  The old man had gentle, content eyes that spoke ‘patience’ in their own language.  

“Sorry guys.” I started. “There wasn’t anywhere else to park.”

The old man just smiled a patient smiled that said “that’s alright” and the boy looked at the old man.

I quickly walked out to my truck, jumped in and fired it up.  As I backed up my truck, the man slowly made his way to his car, carefully picking his steps through the fresh two inches of snow.  The boy hopped in the back.  I waved as they passed by and I parked in the open spot.

The winners were being announced when I returned, starting with the kid’s class.  It was clear that none of these children won with the big pike I saw.  Then came the adult’s class fish.  The categories were read and the top three fish awards from each category were awarded with a prize.  

“And I’m glad to announce the overall biggest fish award goes to Brian Faltz!”  Dan Falwell announced.  “Brian wins an all-inclusive fly-in fishing package for two to Clifton Lake in Manitoba!  Unfortunately, Brian had to leave early.  I need to add that Brian is 10 years old and caught a thirty-nine inch pike out of Portage Lake for the win!”

“I’m going to have to find this Brian and see if he’ll take me with him!” Karl looked at me with big eyes.

“Good luck!  I’m pretty sure I know who he’s taking.  And it won’t be you, Karl.” I said.

A tip of the hat to all who mentor and groom our future anglers through love and patience.  Without you, our sport would be nothing more than people catching fish.