Ice fishing is fun, and maybe you’ll even catch fish ~ January 23, 1986

David Heiller

Warm weather in January brings out the ice fisherman in many people, including me. I’m not a hardcore ice fisherman. I don’t have an ice house, or fancy auger. I don’t take trips to Mille Lacs. I don’t even chew snοose.

Still every year about this time, Ι get the urge to follow a primitive ritual and sit on a slab of ice and stare at two holes with bobbers that don’t move.

My wife sensed it coming last weekend. She announced on Saturday night: “I’ll let you go ice fishing tomorrow if you let me sleep-in in the morning.” Even the thought of getting up with our two kids at 6 a.m. didn't quench the ice fishing thirst.

“You got a, deal,” I replied.

Sunday morning I called Stanley Bonk (in a tired voice) in Willow River, to ask him where a novice might have a little luck fishing this time of year. He said that it was slow all around. “How about Long Lake?” I asked. “Νaw, it’s slow there too,” he answered.

Not to be discouraged, I called Calvin Petry at Petry’s Baits in Finlayson. Owners of bait shops walk a thin line. They can’t lie, yet they have to look on the bright side, stress the positive: “It ain’t too bad,” Calvin said. “Matter of fact, I’m weighing a 20 pound northern from Upper Pine Lake right now.”

“I’m more interested in crappies,” I replied.

Calvin told me of a lake west of Finlayson with reports of crappie action. He described how to get there, where to fish, so with a “dozen” crappie minnows—actually about 50 by Petry’s count—I followed his lead and headed out.

Cindy remained skeptical as I left. “Dave, we’ve been married for five and a half years, and you’ve never brought home a fish from ice fishing.”

“Well, maybe I should go more often,” I reminded her. “Besides, I have a feeling today will be different. I’ve got a hot tip from Petry’s.” The thought crossed my mind that other people might have that same hot tip, but I didn’t express that out loud.

“How many other people have that hot tip?” Cindy asked.

“I used to catch lot of fish through the ice before I was married,” I answered, trying to make a point.

“Then let’s make a deal,” she countered. “You’re responsible for supper tonight.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“No, you’re confident, so bring home some fish for your supper.”

She sent me out of the house with that speech of inspiration, and four hot molasses cookies.

When I got to the lake, there were only five other people there. I made my way to a group of three, standing next to a snowmobile. The ice was riddled with their stains, and a bucket full of crappies. I pretended not to notice. “Catchin’ any?” I asked.

“Νaw,” one answered.

“Been here long?

“Yeah,” another answered.

“Any other good spots on the lake?”

“Over there,” the third answered, pointing to a spot as far away from them as possible.

This is not our photo,
but this is how David fished.
(I was at home with kids.)

I took the hint and ambled away, buckets and auger in tow. Another man, this one with a small white dog, greeted me. Anyone who takes his dog ice fishing can’t be all bad. Sure enough, he had a normal vocabulary, and was friendly to boot. He showed me where to fish for northern, which he was after with a tip-up.

“There are only two or three good spots for crappies really. It’s too shallow here. One’s where those three guys are, but the best is right over there. Just walk that way, you’ll see the holes.”

So I took his advice, and settled down over a couple of Saturday holes by myself. For the first half hour, the bobbers hypnotized me with their stillness, staring me down in their holes. But sure enough, my instinct came through. My left bobber sank to the bottom of the hole, and I pulled the first of eight large crappies from the lake. I lost at least three others, so there is good reason to return to that lake.

When I got home, I kept silent about my modest luck. Cindy didn’t ask. She knew by my silence that I had caught something. So I opened the bucket, and showed the fish to my two-and-a-half year-old son.

“Look at the ice fish, Mama,” he said, and I agreed.