Lyin' in Winter

Originally posted on www.flyanglersonline.com

Okay, there are folks who enjoy fishing in the middle of winter. Some are
called "ice fishermen," others "steelheaders." I use the collective noun;
insane masochists.
I've been ice fishing before. I was the third man in a two-holer ice tent.
If you've never seen one, imagine a nylon-fabric porta-potty on the middle
of a frozen lake, all surrounded by little flags stolen from a Smurf golf
course. At least, that's what it looks like. Some of these tents and shacks
are very fancy, with solid sides, sofas, TV and hot and cold running
maniacs. More on that.

It was Nebraska in late January. I was invited to join Henry and John to
fish. As a fly fisherman, I show up with my fly rod and a chainsaw. I figure
I can cut a long, keyhole shape in the ice and get two or three casts before
the guides freeze up.

The guys invite me into their tent. My 8'6" five weight won't fit, so I
leave it at the door. I keep the chainsaw, noting the crazed look in the
eyes of these erstwhile "friends." Self defense, 'doncha know.

The interior is sparse. Two upturned 5 gallon buckets in a line with a
kerosene space heater in the middle. They are facing two holes in the ice.
Two fishing rods that have been taken away from their mothers too soon sit
on little stands; the lines go into the water.

I need a hole. Hmm, never had cause to utter that sentence before. I mention
this to Henry, he steps outside the tent and brings in "the drill." This
isn't your standard Black & Decker. The drill has a 2 horsepower gas motor
on the top, handles designed for hands wearing boxing gloves and a 9 inch
bit. Not 9 inch long, but 9 inches across. This is the WMD evidence that we
were looking for in Iraq.

John pushes things back and Henry pulls the rip cord, the tent fills with
smoke and noise. Okay, we got your basic shock and awe going here. I'm
shocked that the thing will start in the minus fifty degree temps and awe
gonna get out before I'm overcome by carbon monoxide.

Henry centers the bit between the other two holes, pushes a lever and poof!
We have a three-holer. 14 inches down and he's into the lake. He takes the
drill outside and then starts to explain the technique.

"Okay, those holes outside are John's and mine. You fish out of your hole
here. We don't have the gear to set you up outside."

"Those are more fishing holes? I thought the local CSI had been out here
tagging evidence from some bizarre Inuit gang war. How do you get the fish
in? You've got no fishing poles."

"Well, the flags are tip ups. When the flag goes up, we run out and pull up
the line. Right now, we have them set for bigger, cruising fish. We don't
want to catch tiddlers."

"You catch tiddlers on your tip-ups?"

"No, we don't want to catch tiddlers on the tip-ups. That's why we use a
flasher."

Okay, thinks I, these guys are suffering frostbite between the earmuffs. I
warily eye my two tentmates in their knee-length parkas, as I slowly move to
the back corner of the tent.

"You flash the fish?"

"Yes, we put the probe down the hole and we can see the fish with the
flasher."

"You put the probe down the hole so you can see the fish with the flasher
and not catch tiddlers with the tip-ups."

"Exactly!"

"Okay, I think I've got it. What I've got, I've no clue. What do you use for
bait?"

"Wax worms."

"Those look like maggots."

"No, no. They're totally different."

"Well, they don't seem to have much action."

"You have to warm them up."

"How do you warm them up?" asks I.

"Just pop a few in your mouth and hold 'em in your cheek." He then raises
his mitten to his mouth and coughs up four wriggling worms into his palm.

"I think I'm gonna spew!"

"Don't worry about it. They're wax worms. Perfectly clean."

"You're sure about this?"

"Of course, been doing it for years. Since I've started warming up my bait,
I've trebled the amount of fish caught."

John is besides me nodding seriously. He opens up a little cardboard can and
shakes a tablespoon full of chilled, flesh colored rice krispies into my
glove. I summon up my courage and pop them into my mouth.

"Mmbule, mrammblu bebeme nbm mammods?"

"What?"

I move the wax worms around with my tongue playing sheepdog and finally herd
the suckers into my cheek. "I said, what's the difference between wax worms
and maggots? You said they were totally different." The wax worms are
starting to wake up and one escapes out the corner of my mouth, plopping
onto the ice and squirming away.

"Marketing. No one in the US would buy maggots so they changed the name to
wax worms."

John takes the pepper shot full in the face. He now looks like a genetically
altered Medusa with maggots instead of snakes. None the less, they are both
laughing hysterically.

This is the ice fishing initiation. Henry just had a few "wax worms" in his
palm to keep them warm. With a bit of slight of hand, just spit into the
mitten and voila, there they were.

I, on the other hand, am not laughing. I still have one little bugger caught
behind a crown and a second is heading for my sinuses. Now I know where they
got the idea for so many movies along the line of Alien. That sucker nested
up there. Finally hatched out during a big presentation I was giving at
work.

Time to get down to fishing. John hands me a spare rod. It's about 18 inches
long with a little bitty reel attached. I remove my gloves to bait the hook,
picking a couple of live ones out of John's hair line.

Since there is no room up front, I lean over the space heater and finally
set up on my hole. Plunk, in the water with a bobber the size of a kidney
bean. Hey, this isn't so bad. A couple of "friends," we're fishing and
chatting away. Even after my appetizer, I'm starting to get hungry.

As a matter of fact, I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good.
More like burning plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks
over and casually comments, "fire."

"What?"

"You're on fire."

I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are licking
up from my groin to my chest. I calmly assess the situation. Ah, yes. Stop,
drop and role. I remember that from kindergarten. Unfortunately, there is no
room in the tent for this maneuver. I believe its time to quietly exit the
facility and find a snow bank.

Translate: The scream that I emit draws sharks in from the South Pacific and
sets off car alarms for a 50 mile radius. Many Nebraskans head to their
tornado shelters. I throw the rod and reel, which takes the path of least
resistance and drops straight down through the hole in the ice. I proceed to
beat myself across the stomach and chest whilst doing a great impression of
the Tasmanian Devil in a confined space. I finally head for the exit.

I hit the door doing about Mach 10. The Velcro closure decides to hold fast.
I, and now the whole tent with me, am now moving across the windswept lake.
The tent finally catches on its two other occupants. It molds around them
like a second skin. They don't move, John thinks he has a nibble. The Velcro
gives and I burst through the door.

As I exit, I figure out that the flames were oxygen starved in the tent. I
know this, because as soon as I hit the outside air, I turn into a human
comet, a flaming blue head trailed by a stream of grey smoke. I head for the
nearest snow bank and discover the true meaning of windswept. Ain't no snow
banks for hundreds of yards around.

Kids are playing hockey. I head out, head down and hip check a ten-year-old
into Kansas. I enter the flagged minefield of Henry and John's tip-ups.
Slaloming through, I manage to snag every one of them with my mukluks. I
look like a Wisconsin limousine kitted out for a wedding. One tip-up is
attached to a state-record walleye that flies through the air, flash
freezes, shoots across the lake, and trips a figure skater who does the
first ever quadruple Lutz. Unfortunately, she lands in one of John's ice
holes and is never seen again.

I finally dive for the ice, rolling and spinning in inaugural Winter X-Games
break dance competition. The officials hold up their signs, 2, 1.5, 2 and a
0.5 from the French judge.

The flames out, I look back and Henry and John haven't moved. The tent site
looks like a plane crash debris field. My 5 weight is broken and forms a
cross over the hole that the skater disappeared through. John raises his rod
and brings up a 6" yellow perch.

I think I'll stick to fly fishing and class V rapids, it's safer.
--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in message
...
...I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good. More like burning
plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks over and casually
comments, "fire."

"What?"

"You're on fire."

I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are
licking up from my groin to my chest...

Up to this point, I thought this was going to be one of
those......um.......whattyacallit......fish stories.

Reality bites.

Wolfgang
nice job, Frank.

...I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good. More like burning
plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks over and casually
comments, "fire."

"What?"

"You're on fire."

I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are
licking up from my groin to my chest...

Up to this point, I thought this was going to be one of
those......um.......whattyacallit......fish stories.

Reality bites.

Wolfgang
nice job, Frank.

In all honesty, I still have the burnt LL Bean parka. I was really proud of
that, as I spent 80 bucks on it as a closeout special. On a GI's pay, that
was a whole crap load of money.

--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

Very well done. Had me laughing as much as any Pat McManus story.


--
Bob Weinberger
La, Grande, OR

place a dot between bobs and stuff and remove invalid to send email
"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in message
...
...I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good. More like
burning
plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks over and
casually
comments, "fire."

"What?"

"You're on fire."

I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are
licking up from my groin to my chest...

Up to this point, I thought this was going to be one of
those......um.......whattyacallit......fish stories.

Reality bites.

Wolfgang
nice job, Frank.

In all honesty, I still have the burnt LL Bean parka. I was really proud
of
that, as I spent 80 bucks on it as a closeout special. On a GI's pay,
that
was a whole crap load of money.

--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

****ed myself laughing -- and I'm a steelheader . . . .

Peter

turn mailhot into hotmail to reply

Visit The Streamer Page at http://www.mountaincable.net/~pcharl...ers/index.html

****ed myself laughing -- and I'm a steelheader . . . .

Peter

Which is how steelheaders keep their feet warm.

--
Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply

"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in message
...
Originally posted on www.flyanglersonline.com

Okay, there are folks who enjoy fishing in the middle of winter. Some are
called "ice fishermen," others "steelheaders." I use the collective noun;
insane masochists.

Frank Reid
Reverse email to reply



Thanks Frank!

Marketing? I'll have to remember that!

Mark

Frank Reid wrote:

...I smell something cooking. Doesn't smell very good. More like burning
plastic bags. Smoke curls up around my face. John looks over and casually
comments, "fire."

"What?"

"You're on fire."

I look down, and my parka is up against the space heater. Flames are
licking up from my groin to my chest...

Up to this point, I thought this was going to be one of
those......um.......whattyacallit......fish stories.

Reality bites.

Wolfgang
nice job, Frank.


In all honesty, I still have the burnt LL Bean parka. I was really proud of
that, as I spent 80 bucks on it as a closeout special. On a GI's pay, that
was a whole crap load of money.

you can wear it at penns. the bear will appreciate it, i'm sure.

jeff (uh...are you in the non-smoking cabin?)

"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in message
...
Originally posted on www.flyanglersonline.com

Okay, there are folks who enjoy fishing in the middle of winter. Some are
called "ice fishermen," others "steelheaders." I use the collective noun;
insane masochists.

(stuff snipped)
Frank Reid

Thanks for the fun Frank. But . . . I resemble some of that stuff, growing
up in northeast South Dakota . . .and with none of those "sissy" nylon
tents. . .some of those there were like small vacation homes. ( but not the
one my dad bought . . .more like a very,very small closet, with a stove that
could get red hot, right in the middle)
I never started on fire . ..but I did succeed in "smoldering" a few times.

BestWishes,
DaveMohnsen
Denver