The Lake Where You Live

Are kids or grandkids coming to your lake during the holidays? As I write this at 8 p.m. on Dec. 21, Sonya and Chad are on their way north in the car with grandsons Tucker and Perrin in the back seat. The boys will expect to go fishing.

Until yesterday I had my doubts they would be able to. A fragile ice sheet had covered Birch Lake on November 30, but cold days that tended to harden the ice were interspersed with warm days, temperatures well above freezing.

About 10 days ago I walked out with the electric auger and drilled a few holes, progressing out a dozen or so yards at a time, in each case measuring the ice thickness. It was uniform at about four inches. But the next day was sunny with a high in the mid-40s. When I checked toward evening, the snow had melted off and water pooled on the surface. I no longer felt safe.

After a few not-quite-as-warm days I still didn’t trust the ice. But then early this week, for about 48 hours, the temperature averaged about 20 degrees. So yesterday I was willing to venture out again, this time with not just the auger but a half-dozen jig poles and a cooler to sit on. It was my sworn duty to find the crib on which the boys would fish.

Using my handheld GPS I navigated toward a waypoint I had marked a few years ago, watching the display as the number of feet to the destination steadily decreased. When the device said I was within a few feet of the target I stopped and drilled a hole. I measured about five inches of ice — plenty safe in my opinion.

So I sat down and deployed a tungsten jig tipped with a waxworm. I jigged for a few minutes and…nothing. I drilled another hole about eight feet farther from shore. Again, no action. A little farther out, still nothing. So, was I proceeding in the wrong direction? 

I bored another eight-inch opening in the ice about 10 feet closer to shore than the first hole. And after a minute or two of jigging, the rod tip twitched. I snapped my wrist up and set the hook on what turned out to be an eight-inch rock bass, brightly colored. I set it on the ice and snapped a picture before sending it back down the hole.

Next came a bluegill. Then another. And one more. And so on. I photographed a big one, and then I packed up for home. This brief outing was strictly exploratory, to prove that the fish were still there as usual, that I still had my delicate ice angling touch, and that the grandsons would not be disappointed. 

Back home, I texted the two pictures to Tucker and Perrin with this message: “The fish are biting.” Tucker, the older one at age 11, promptly texted back: “Cool.” Tomorrow they’ll have their chance at the rock bass, bluegills, perch and crappies that cluster around a pile and brush 17 feet beneath the ice. They’ll be happy. And guide Grampa will be proud.

Ted Rulseh resides on Birch Lake in Harshaw and is an advocate for lake protection and improvement. He may be reached at [email protected].