The Lake Where You Live

February 22.

It’s a Saturday mild enough for ice fishing, but first I have to shovel eight inches of snow off the stairs down to the lake — 57 of them. The work is easy; the shovel neatly sweeps the light powder off each step.

Later, suitably bundled up, I lug my equipment down. When I reach the ice I lay everything aside and use my handheld GPS to locate the underwater crib where I’ll drill my holes. It lies about a hundred yards out from my shoreline. 

As I start toward it, I find the going arduous even though I carry no burden. The snow is well over a foot deep. And then I encounter the late winter lake sandwich, beneath half a foot of snow a crust, and under that a deep layer of watery slush. 

My insulated boots break the crust and sink to within a few inches of their tops. I plod along as the GPS guides me, at last, to the spot. I flounder back to get the electric drill, tote bag of jig rods, and the cooler that will serve as a chair, then slog my way to the spot again.

I position the auger blade on the snow and squeeze the switch. The blade cuts down, down, down some more, until it breaks through with only about six inches of shaft to spare. I estimate the ice thickness at 26 to 28 inches.

After clearing the slush, I deploy a chartreuse tungsten jig tipped with a waxworm. Half a minute later the orange rod tip twitches, and I set the hook. I reel in as the fish circles and pulls down. Soon a brightly colored bluegill emerges from the hole.

The GPS has found the crib that was my destination, and I enjoy a long spell in which every time I send the jig down, I have a bite within seconds. Most of the ‘gills are keeper size, but I put each one back. I consider harvesting from cribs unfair, the fish clustered and too easily taken.

I imagine the Jacques Cousteau scene of bluegills swarming around the cluster of logs and tangled brush below me. I must be just off the edge of it, because I encounter not a single snag. That is, unless I count the moment I connect with a huge fish that begins pulling line off my reel against the pinging of the drag and threatens to snap my four-pound line. 

It’s not a hard, fast dash but a steady, heavy pressure — short, deliberate and unstoppable runs. This behavior tells me it’s a musky on the line. I have no hope of getting it through the hole and up onto the ice. At last the pressure gives way and I reel in a bluegill, seemingly in shock but surprisingly without tooth marks on its flanks.

I slip it back into the hole; it darts down and away. I’m amazed how, as I place each fish back in the water, they know the way back to the crib. They don’t swim around in confused circles; they instantly dive for home in the deep.

It has been a memorable afternoon. Through the past three months the Birch Lake ice has steadily thickened and the snow has piled on. From here forward the process will reverse. Mature winter will gradually, inevitably, melt into spring.

Ted Rulseh resides on Birch Lake in Harshaw and is an advocate for lake protection and improvement. His Lakeland Times and Northwoods River News columns are the basis for a book, “A Lakeside Companion,” published by The University of Wisconsin Press. Ted may be reached at trulseh@tjrcommunications.com.