IceQuake!

Just when you think you've seen it all...

When an ice fisherman steps onto a frozen surface, it is understood that there is always a risk/reward ratio based on principles of ice formation, thickness, texture, and the commonsense notion that “no ice is safe ice.” Safe ice doesn’t really exist because of the many variables introduced by temperature, wind, currents, and underwater springs. Nonetheless, many of us are undeterred by reason and choose to embrace the belief that we have enough knowledge to know when we can venture forth. And always, there are those whose decades of experience and wisdom still betray their faith.

As an avid ice fisherman for 38 years, I have witnessed some remarkable events and some incredibly sad endings among my peers in my area. Following is a true story about one such memorable outing that shook me to my core, and yet, in some fortuitous brush with fate, we all survived, never to lose respect for the awesome power of nature. We call it “The Icequake,” which occurred in February just before the turn of the millennium.

It was a gorgeous Sunday with a warm winter sun painted in the bluest sky I can remember. A group of us met at the Shelburne Bay access of Lake Champlain in Shelburne, Vermont. From the access, it was clear by the number of full-size trucks on the ice, having carved out a plowed “road,” that the ice was thick enough to carry our trucks. Typically, my rule is that the ice must be a minimum of 24 inches thick, and there must be at least one dozen other full-size vehicles already out in the bay. Monitoring the thickness of the ice earlier in the week, we felt safe driving our trucks out as well.

There was a cluster of big Chevys, Fords, and Dodge Rams about one mile out from the access in the northeast corner near Queen City Park. We drove out without hesitation, crawled out of our vehicles, and quickly popped a few holes through 28 inches of good, solid black ice. We stood in a circle with our chariots nearby. My partner for the day was a waterfowler who loved adventure and never shied away from danger. John was a 747 pilot who flew the big jets around the world every week. His hyperattentive nature to weather and equipment made him a reliable pilot and a dependable soul if something were to go off the rails.

There were about eight of us all told, standing in a circle ten yards apart, and jigging the depths of a drop off from 18 to 24 feet of water. We were after big February yellowbellies that come into the shallows to spawn. Maybe a lake trout or two to make things interesting. As we stood in a circle, laughing, sharing a cold beer in the welcoming warmth of the February sun, we were more focused on the jocular conversation than on catching fish. It was one of those days in the middle of winter that you can’t take for granted. Filling our buckets was of secondary importance. Somewhere between the second and third can of Labatts Blue, it happened.

At first, it was just a distant groan. We figured it was “just the lake making ice again.” But no, it was too warm for that. 45 degrees. No one said a word. Seconds passed, and the rumble continued. Too long for the bay to “burp” up air bubbles from its depths. About half a minute passed, and the sound became louder. Finally, John spoke up. “Are you guys hearing that, or have I had one too many beers?” Eyes darted from one to another until all eight of us had non-verbally acknowledged that we were experiencing the same thing.

I turned my head to look south since that seemed to be where the deep grumbling was emanating from. I squinted my eyes to see across the bay as far as I could. What I saw was something which I had never seen or heard before. It seemed impossible, but when I asked the crew, “Do you guys see what I see?” The replies came back quickly and were laced with repeating expletives in a linguistic format not recognized by gentrified folk. All acknowledged that we were seeing a two-foot-high “wave” of ice coming directly at us. It was growing louder, and the vibrations on the surface around us could be felt throughout our bodies.

I looked at John and said, “Dammit, buddy! I really don’t want to leave this earth with you being the last thing I see.” The off-color comment did not go unnoticed and seemed to “break the proverbial ice” of complete and utter fear toward a “what the hell” attitude of accepting our fate, whatever that was to be today.

As the wave got closer, we all instinctively squatted as if we were on a runaway elevator, believing that if we could jump up before it hit bottom, we might survive. In this position of complete and vulnerable surrender, we each experienced the same bone-chilling effect.

We all watched as John’s truck was picked up two feet on top of the ice wave and set down as if it hadn’t moved. I turned to John on my right and watched the wave sweep under his feet, lift him two feet upwards, and set him down as if he’d never been moved. Now it was my turn. I swallowed hard and lifted my arms in a synchronous motion matching the momentum and direction of the ice wave. I took a deep breath and surrendered. This time, she lifted me up and set me down solidly where I stood. This caused the ice to crack a couple of times. Loudly. But as the entire lake and bay were frozen from shore to shore, there was no place for the ice to go but back to its original position.

I’d like to say we all laughed when it was over, but the jovial nature of the day had been shaken out of us. There was a strong consensus that we’d had enough excitement for the day.