Fishing Crazy
From the Pendergrass Library
As we floundered down what should have been an easy trail, slipping and falling into the icy, melting slush, we both considered turning back. We would be soaked before even reaching our destination. And we come from a long line of outdoorsmen more accustomed to taking the easy road, so quitting wasn’t out of the question.
Seriously, it was tough going; the walk into the lake was nothing easy, we took turns resting under the pines, spread-out completely on our backs gasping for air. I suppose in a couple of more years the younger one of us will offer up a swear word or two under similar circumstances, to go along with the mild ones I uttered this time.
What were we doing, are we crazy? It’s mid-April and we’re going ice fishing? Come on - are we dumb? Well, yes, but if this is what it takes to get there, what will the lake’s surface be like when we get to where we’re going? The possibilities were dancing though our heads as we slogged along. Yes, it could be really, really bad.
However, the truth is, it was quite nice at the lake. Warm temperatures, a frozen surface to ourselves, and plenty of already open holes from the anglers who’d come before us. Perfect. Definitely, perfect.
Yes, of course, we were careful, don’t phone child protective services to turn me in, you have to use caution when venturing out on ice this late in the season. I went first, I’m more likely to fall in should the ice be thin, and I told Jack where the car keys were hidden in the Jeep should he have to drive back home alone. We had it covered. Yet, there was a solid 14-inches of ice between us and the drink, more than enough to keep even someone my size out of the water. So, we fished.
And fishing was slow at first; a couple of bites here, a few takers there, and even some keepers every once in awhile. Not many. And though the pace wasn’t what we’d hoped, we spent quality time on the ice sitting around on our plastic buckets staring at our ice holes - way better than sitting around in the living room on comfy chairs staring at the television. Way better.
Eventually we moved around the lake, connecting the dots of the open holes as if completing an elementary assignment, thinking the fishermen who’d drilled them knew more about what they were doing than we did. And we were correct.
So, there were more fish. More keepers. More laughs, more cheers and more success.
Now, crappies might not able to carry an entire dinner every night, but they’ve got plenty of wherewithal. It takes a while to clean enough of them to feed a family, so they can be a lot of work. Yet, they’re fine eating. Plenty fine. And it’s always more fun to catch a mess of pan fish than it is just two walleyes. At least I think so.
Eventually the day would wane and the sun would ebb. We pulled our buckets and we pulled the plug. We scrambled back down the trail, sliding and falling, wet from the knees down because of the bad trail. We poured ourselves into the Jeep. I’m always a little surprised when the Jeep starts, but most times it does. And it did again.
My son is our official family fish cleaner, he thinks I waste too much meat with my clumsy approach to the chore. But am I bad fish cleaner, or a cagey one? I’ll never tell. And evidently I don’t have to clean any fish.
Ultimately we had a good time, the end result worth the efforts. And we could have quit going in, but couldn’t quit coming out.
Darrell Pendergrass lives in Grand View.