A natural born fisher-person ~ December 27, 2001

David Heiller

One of my Christmas wishes came true, much to Nancy’s chagrin. I had hoped for cold weather that would solidify the ice on lakes and ponds. I wanted this for two reasons, skating and ice fishing.

Of course, I got my wish. Was there any doubt of that happening in Minnesota in December? The cold weather did arrive, and the ice did freeze, and it froze smooth. I mean smooth. Α Zamboni couldn’t have made better ice.

So on Saturday, Nancy, Collin and I headed for Mud Lake to do some ice fishing.

Nancy, my sister-in-law, is probably the most die-hard fisher-person I will ever meet. Not that she fishes much. She doesn’t have that opportunity, for a variety of reasons. But when she goes, she is as content as a chickadee at a bird feeder, and that fact became clear to me once again last Saturday.

Α heavy snow was falling when we got to Mud Lake at 2 p.m. I carried the minnows, my nephew, Collin, carried the bucket of gear, and Nancy brought up the rear with the ice auger.

The ice was slippery, especially with a couple inches of fresh snow on top. I shuffled along very carefully, knees bent, butt low, in Slippery Ice Mode, which most Minnesotans have to employ every so often. It’s the human equivalent of Four Wheel Drive.

I was only about 50 feet onto the ice when I heard a thud and felt a crack run through the ice beneath my boots. I turned around to see Nancy on her back, spread eagled.

I ran back to her, trying my very hardest not to laugh. There is something about seeing people fall on ice that is comical. Even Hazel Serritslev, the gentlest soul I know, laughs when she sees people fall. I didn’t see Nancy fall, but seeing her lying there spread-eagled touched my funny bone.

It touched Nancy’s too, because when I reached her, I could see that she was shaking with laughter. She assured me that she was ΟΚ—I told you she was a trooper—and we continued my honey hole.

We had just reached the spot when Nancy went down again. But this time it was different. Even Hazel would not have chuckled at it. In a flash so fast that the eyes couldn’t take it in, Nancy’s feet went straight out, she landed flat on her back, and her head hit the ice with sickening crack. It hurt just to see it.

Nancy was stunned, her face a grimace of pain. It took a few minutes for her to sit up and then stand. Snow was falling harder now, blown by a stiff north wind, and it stuck to her hair—did I mention that Nancy forgot her stocking cap? I asked if she wanted to go back.

No way! She wanted to fish.

So I started drilling holes. We soon had three poles in the water, plus two tip-ups. We fished hard, jigging, checking the bait, scooping out slush, stamping our feet—carefully—and trying to stay warm.

Ice fishing brings out contrasting emotions. On the one hand, there’s nothing more exciting than seeing that bobber sink down, and hooking a big crappie. Or seeing that flag go up and hoping that a 20-pound northern is tugging at the other end.

On the other hand, when the fish don’t bite there is no feeling more forlorn than standing on a frozen lake and feeling your body temperature slowly start to fall.

That’s what happened on Saturday. My hot spot was in my imagination only. The fish that had been there a month ago beneath my canoe had found new winter digs.

Two fine anglers, Nancy and Collin.

If Nancy had started pulling in fish, I have a hunch she would have stuck it out. But she finally called it quits. I could tell it was hard. Her hair was plastered to her head, covered with an inch of snow. You could almost see her head throbbing in pain, like in a cartoon. Her feet were cold—she forgot her winter boots too. So she headed to the car.

As she walked away in a Four Wheel Drive shuffle, Collin asked me if he should go with her. It was one of those nine-year-old flashes of wisdom that come out of nowhere. Good idea, I said. I had to smile as I watched them trudge through the storm. Nancy shoulders were bowed in defeat, yet not totally, because her nephew was by her side, offering her consolation and companionship, and that’s almost worth a serious bump on the head.

Collin returned, and we gave it another half hour, but the fish just weren’t there. I started planning my next move. “I bet they’re down there, by that point,” I suggested. “Let’s give it a try tomorrow.”

Collin didn’t bite at that. “I bet they are frosting the sugar cookies at home right now,” he said.

We finally called it quits and headed in. Nancy was sitting in the cold car. She didn’t even have the engine running! I told you she was tough.

Later that night, I asked if we should go fishing tomorrow. Collin shook his head. He had indeed missed out on frosting the sugar cookies, and no freezing trip to another Dead Sea would get him to miss more Christmas fun.

Nancy said yes. Her answer startled me at first, but then I shouldn’t have been surprised. Fish or no fish, concussion or no concussion, she is a natural born fisherman that even Bob Dutcher would be proud of.