The weather broke on Wednesday. Dennis turned 64 and there was not a cloud in the sky. Forty degrees seemed spring-like making our collective blood flow like the Ganges in monsoon. It was perfect, a convergence of nature’s sublime forces all arriving, as one friend turned another year older.
He was child-like in his enthusiasm, seeing the birthday event not so much as a time to receive well-packaged material gifts, or even a nice well-endowed trust fund, but a time to celebrate another day, a day not consisting of working but to bask in the glories of nature’s bounty with a rag-tag group of friends. It was time to go ice fishing, a time to go ice fishing with comrades for a day of pleasantries, and buffoonery in the noonday sun.
That being said, the gear was assembled in the order of importance, one Smoky Joe, lawn chairs, a small folding table, numerous tubular meat products, a broad spectrum of beverages concentrating on the work of the local brewery and a slathered chocolate cheese cake. In addition, there were some fishing poles, 5 in total, a selection of minnows, , a tin of wiggling grubs, a few Goldenrod galls, and an ice cutting spud.
For a group of nine there appeared to be scant fishing outfits, but some individuals were walking the one mile to the lake not so much to fish but to join the festivities----and they were, for the most part, known to be worthless fishermen.
On our arrival, after trucking in the sleds with the “fishing” gear, the idea was to find some used holes so we didn’t have to spud out 30 inches of ice. Low and behold, there were no fresh holes and the reworking of the found holes was more work than most of us really wanted. However, with communal cooperation, four workable holes were created, but on the attempt at the fifth, one of the exhausted hole punchers, by the name of Rick, managed to momentarily lose control of the spudding device and sent it to the bottom of the lake some 40 feet down in the deep briny. He mumbled something to the affect that he had seen a really big fish and tried to spear it---or something like that.
Providing four holes was not bad, so we set up two tip-ups and two jigging poles, all that could really be handled comfortably by this group. Some participants viewed the real fishermen with disdain or thought we were mentally deficient for just sitting there waiting for that big bite. In truth, all were eager for some action.
Initially, there was some interest in the fishing but due to the complete failure to attract a single bluegill, bass or mudpuppy, the banter turned to taking note of various person’s misguided childhoods. Matt started the grill and threw on an attractive selection of tube steaks including some organic veggie item that appeared meat like but was made from algae or, seaweed, moss, or something. Midway though the first Epicurean delight, a flag up went up about 30 yards off. After yelling and profound belittling by non-combatants, three of us bounded out as if we were headed to the Shakleton cut off.
As we crouched by the sprung tip-up, it was clear there was no giant fish running the line. A slight retrieval confirmed it was a false alarm, but at least we had action. It was back to the party center for more cake and brews.
While all of this seems to be nothing more than a party on hard water, it was, in fact, a rare opportunity this winter. Each participant, comfortable there on the ice, repeatedly marveled at the glory of the day, not that it was forty degrees, which was a thing of wonder, but at the surroundings of wooded lands and rush filled marshes. Here and there a chickadee skirted, a crow cruised by and under the ice, away from us, the winter-worn fish slept out the winter. Not another person was to be seen, nor a cottage. It was a hundred years ago----one fishing party on a lonely lake.
A number of coyotes had slipped across the lake, probably at night, looking for that one fat rabbit but more likely content with a burrowing mouse or vole now deep in the snow.
It was a day of days, the kind all the lovers of Wisconsin’s winter weather
long for in their dreams. Five hours passed and not one fish came to us, and we tried, but that was not really the intention even though a nice fry would have been welcomed. It was just a sunny day on a lake with friends, laughing and reflecting on all that has passed now that Dennis has hit sixty-four, yes, when he’s sixty-four.
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