Ice Fishing

Ice Fishing
By
Karen Gifford

The coffee steam rises thick in the cold air clouding their eyes momentarily. Whirlwind swirls of snow and frozen air dance along the white expanse of ice like skaters twirling in competition. The wind whistles across the frozen lake; nothing to block it or redirect its chilling advances. Weather reports use words like ‘bitter’ and ‘frigid’ but it doesn’t deter the daily influx of people. Like immigrants in search of some golden opportunity, they perform the slow trek each morning before the sun comes up, and back again at dusk. Their exposed skin is cold, but their focus is hot; waiting and visualizing what lies beneath. Looking around it’s as if a city has sprung up in this arctic emptiness; a shanty town of shacks big and small; a campsite of like-minded winter lovers each waiting for that same adrenaline rush.

I peer through a large pane of glass with the heat from the register blowing upwards from the floor. I can feel the cold air through the glass so I step back a little. It’s bright outside today, and my eyes water from the glare. The lake is spotted with the shacks; some are concentrated towards the center, while others are spread thinly further out across the 4 mile stretch. Like squatters from days gone by, this is home for about four months to all those unknown settlers I find myself intrigued by, staring at from the comfort of a heated living room. Before I’m even dressed in the morning, before I’ve had my first cup of coffee they are out there, wrapped in layers of wool and goose down. I can’t make out their faces even through the binoculars, but I can detect activity – and the faint up and down motion as they slowly jig their short fishing poles through a small hole in the ice. I squish my toes around inside my fuzzy slippers, take a sip of hot cocoa and wonder who these people are.


Like watching a silent movie I gaze as the villagers interact with each other. I try to imagine what they are saying. Out further are the loners who seem to prefer their solitude and sometimes the company of a dog. Every now and then a snowmobile will zip towards one of the shacks dragging a sled behind it. “That,” I think to myself, “looks like the way to go!” forgoing the slow march over yesterday’s snow tracks in favor of more modern and speedy transportation. Wrapping my afghan around my shoulders I try to figure out what type of person would even want to go out there on a day when the mercury struggles to reach numbers below zero.

Like foreigners in my own back yard I begin to think that I should go introduce myself someday in hopes of gaining a better understanding of these wayfaring strangers. But then I sigh a big lazy sigh, and I tire quickly from the thought of locating my hat and gloves. I guess for now I’m content just to wonder warmly.

So on about my indoor business I go, checking the thermostat every so often to make sure it doesn’t fall below 78 degrees. I’ll do my laundry, sweep the floor, make the beds, and search endlessly for the source of that darn draft. And each time I pass by the picture window I see the same unchanged background of dark spots peppered across the frosted terrain. I’ve come to fondly regard this view as a seasonal piece of my décor, my still life; my winter scene shadow box that I hang here each January and take down each April. If you stare long enough you can actually see the moving pieces. I raise my cup of hot cocoa to these transient residents for their desire to endure the biting temperatures in hopes of snagging an eight pound walleye, and for their undaunted expectations.

Karen Gifford
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