A couple of snakes ~ April 3, 2003

David Heiller

We were heading off the lake on Saturday afternoon, but Tom had one more stop to make.

There was a spot of blood next to one of the holes in the ice. Tom scraped some clean snow over it with his boot and tamped it down. The blood was gone, and so was the evidence of the fish he had caught.

This was vintage Tom Deering. The location of Osama Bin Laden is better known than Tom’s fishing holes.

Never mind that we had hiked six miles over four lakes and four portages—unmarked ones at that—or that we were on a lake the size of Denmark.

Better not leave any evidence next to a fishing hole.

We had started for the lake early that morning, laden with packs and sleds and ice fishing gear, Tom, his friend Ken Hupila, Ken’s two dogs, and me.

Tom and a couple of snakes.

It felt so good, after this strange winter of no snow, to actually head into the wilderness. We made it to Tom’s Bay in two hours.

Tom’s Bay is not its real name. I can’t say the real name without entering the Witness Protection program. I named it after him because he discovered it about six years ago.

We’ve been back several times since. The reason why became clear about 15 minutes after our holes were drilled, when Tom pulled out a five-pound northern. Then Ken’s tip-up flag went up, and out came a 14-pound northern.

We didn’t even have time to stash our gear by shore before Ken had another flag. He kept a poker face as he casually pulled in some line, then let some line go, and repeated this for about five minutes.

“Got a nice one?” Tom asked. We knew the answer.

“Well, his head won’t fit in the hole,” Ken answered nonchalantly. He guided the fish slowly upward, then Tom reached in with his gaff and pulled out a lunker. It measured 42 inches, and weighed exactly 20 pounds.

It was an awesome northern, big and dark, and with a stomach that hung out like a drunk’s on a barstool.

“That’s it, I’m done fishing for the day,” Ken said.

That was partially true. “You’ve got a flag again,” I yelled to him a little later. Ken didn’t move from his perch next to the fire. “Yοu take it.”

When the top of the spool quit spinning, I raised the line and gave a slight jerk to set the hook. The other end of the line pulled back like a tow truck. We played tug-of-war for several minutes, then the northern came out of the hole like a missile. I carefully grabbed it under the gill plate and laid it on the ice.

David with a sled full of wood and snakes.

It was exactly the same size and weight as Ken’s giant. We admired it for a half a minute, then I let it slide back home. That felt almost as good as catching it.

That’s the way the day went. Fish after fish. A couple 10-pounders. More five-pounders than we could keep track of. It got to the point that when a flag would go up, the owner of that tip-up would grumble good-naturedly. But deep down we all knew this was just what the doctor had ordered.

What could be finer? Sitting on a lake in the Upper Midwest. Late March. Warm sun shining. Roasting venison sausages over a fire. Talking about important things like frozen septic systems. And catching fish.

We headed home at 4:30. Α long walk lay ahead, but it didn’t seem daunting. The sun was setting, its soft light hinting of spring. I felt good that at midlife, I could still make this beautiful outing. Tom and Ken said they felt the same way.

Tom stopped at the last hole, one that had produced about 40 pounds of fish, and did the old soft shoe to cover up the blood on the ice.

We met a couple of people at the first portage. They had been fishing further out, and said they had been skunked. “How about you?” the man asked. “Catch anything?”

“Couple of snakes,” Tom replied, and we headed home.