Hope-fishing on a Frozen Lake
A short photo essay on ice fishing and living in the frozen North.
I can’t hear a thing but the whine of the Ski-doo beneath us.
Martin is expertly navigating our way over the frozen lake to the ice fishing tent. I scan the big open sky. In glorious natural majesty, the sun is kissing the horizon. The magic between the land and the sky results in the blush of an orange-yellow glow. It casts blue-grey shadows off the lake’s snowbanks. In no time we are at the tent from where Martin’s brother bellows one of his warm, hearty greetings.
This ice-fishing experience is much different than last year. Then, Martin and I were fishing at the end of the season in much warmer temperatures and without a tent. Today it feels like -40 deg Celsius, or Fahrenheit — I guess the actual temperature scale doesn’t really matter at this is cross-over point.
We settle into the cozy atmosphere. The two siblings have set up a comfy little nest as our shelter. I plop down on a sheepskin-lined pop-up chair while removing my toque and mitts. A small propane-powered heater sits across from me in the corner. They have drilled three eight-inch holes into ice that is eighteen inches thick. We kid and tease while they set up the rods and we drop the lines into the chilly water. It looks so pure, so clear down there. Leaning over the holes, we gaze silently at our lure, an exercise in meditation.
But the tent doesn’t remain quiet for long. The jokes start up again because ice fishing is more than braving the frigid frosty mind-numbing cold for the outside chance of a bit of fish dinner. It is about camaraderie. It is about community in its tiniest form. Three people huddled in a hut wishing for something good, hoping for any indication of the incredible possibility that a living creature can exist in the flip side of our synthetic igloo.
We marvel over that same sentiment when we are inside. Gathered around a wood-burning stove, we watch the best TV show of all courtesy the large six-foot windows. Blue Jays, Whiskey Jacks, Grosbeaks, and Chickadees swoop into the feeder and nibble on the various goodies our hosts have provided. The occasional squirrel makes an appearance, but mostly these brave birds are left unharassed to eat their fill. Where do they find respite after venturing out for a bite? There must be some nest, some shelter they’ve created close by.
When we are nestled in our quilted tent, we are fully aware of our vulnerability. When I stop to contemplate what we’re doing, I feel like we’ve cheated nature somehow. Within the confines of this structure, we are perched on the lake’s surface trusting the ice to hold us, and this membrane to shield us from deadly windchill. In the grand scheme of things, we are a crystal glass at a construction site and we understand that Mother Nature could demolish us whenever she liked.
Only a few months separate us from another experience… In Spring the ice will heave and crack and melt. When the next fishing season opens we will be floating, not perching upon it. We will have shed our layers down to t-shirts and shorts, fending off the sun with baseball hats and sunglasses.
For now, though, we are snuggled into our multi-layers of winter wear and good vibes.
Our cottage getaway has been an escape from the complicated times we live in. Here we are stripped down, face-to-face with what feels tangibly real. The purity of the snow-laden pines, the hope of what may be on the end of our line, a community of loved ones, and the primitive fight for survival.
No fish were hurt in the making of this testimonial to ice fishing. Other than one modest bump on my line, all was asleep beneath us, likely huddled in a warm eddy somewhere laughing at our efforts.
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