First Ice. First Fish.

End of Year. Start of the Season!

Yesterday was our first day on the ice for the season. It was a 5 am start with an hour-and-a-half drive north, and the first real cold spell dipped the mercury below zero. Stopped for breakfast sandwiches at a truck stop. I was prepared for the worst. The double bacon, egg, cheddar, and tomato with mayo and pepper sauce did not disappoint. Two thermoses of French roast coffee. The first one needed a refill, as the night before had been mostly sleepless.

Arriving at the boat launch on the south side of the lake, we discovered that six inches of mostly powdery snow lay blanketing seven inches of solid black ice. Snowmobiles and four-wheelers were already out in the middle about ¼ mile from the access. With about thirty parties already on the ice (what the heck time did THEY arrive?), we felt safe enough. I am more than a bit cautious about ice safety. I know men heavier than me who don’t hesitate to fish on as little as two inches of clear black surface. I have also known more than six people who have died from breaking through, thus my personal rule of “never less than four inches of the clear black stuff,” and always let a bigger person take the lead. First ice, they say, is one of the most productive periods. That may be true, but I’ll impatiently wait for six or eight before taking anyone else.

Yesterday, we felt confident dragging our shanties and sleds out to a drop off where the sonar app read from twenty-three feet to thirty. My partner, Christian, is a true Canadian. When these guys are delivered in the hospital, they must be issued a permanent fishing license on their birth certificate, and instead of reaching out for their mother’s breast, I think that they reach for the nearest thing that looks like a fishing rod. They are Born to Fish.

We ventured forth and set up his fancy Jason Mitchell shanty. I watched him drill three holes in less than a minute. He offered me the first. I declined. I wanted to watch his expertise in action. It was a slow start, but his Vexilar fish finder was displaying multiple color bands, indicating that a draught of fish was waiting for their breakfast to be delivered. We had to find out what they wanted as their first course.

Notably, he was the first on the board with a nice ten-inch yellowbelly. But the rest of them were as finicky as an insolent toddler. We switched bibbits a few times. Christian tried a Maki plastic on a Clam Drop Kick and hooked another nice “fatty.” I put a couple of spikes (maggots for the uninitiated) on my favorite Simcoe bibbit and dropped it down the icy cylinder. It “bounced” off the silty bottom and stirred up a small rainbow cloud on the screen. Seconds after the cloud appeared, the ultra-sensitive tip of my Tickle Stick ice rod bowed down in a dramatic tug toward the hole. The vibration of the fish on the hook made the whole rod thrum. Reeling it up from the bottom, the fish fought hard and twice ran, taking the line from the spool as if the drag didn’t even exist. “Let ‘em run!” Christian said. “Of course!” I replied. “I just don’t want to snap the line. It’s only a three-pounder.” Christian replied, “Let the rod do the work.”

A minute later, I was holding up my first yellow perch of the season. Not a trophy size-wise, but that first fish through the ice gets my blood pumping hard. First ice. First fish, Third to the last day of the year.

We fished hard for the rest of the day. My buddy Trevor joined us and managed to outfish Christian and I combined. We slogged back to the access at 3:30, totally worn out. Smiles and congratulations were passed among all parties. Together we managed to take home thirty nice, fat yellow perch.

As the sun began to set in the Adirondacks as I drove home, a warm feeling of connection and gratitude flushed over me. Alone in the cab of my vehicle, I uttered “Thank you” to no one there. The early winter sun slid behind the mountains with a gracious wink of crimson exhalation as it settled between the peaks.