February 5, 2013 – Tuesday

4 degrees/cloudy/snow showers

Pentoga Road

After recording a bone-chilling -21 degrees early Monday, this morning’s +4 seems almost balmy. Maybe I’ll work on my tan later, lift some weights down by the beach and show off my finely honed and ripped body to all the bikini-clad chicks, possibly hang ‘10’ on the local lake; or not. Okay, I lied. Actually, there’s some snow in the forecast.

Sunday was a wonderfully lazy day. Other than feed the deer, the birds, and ourselves, I did very little and accomplished even less.

My culinary masterpiece of the day was creating a three-egg garden omelet filled with store-bought veggies. It tasted okay considering it’s the middle of winter, but as Sargie and I both agreed, it was a mere substitute for what’s (hopefully) ahead this summer when the gardening season is in full swing and we can eat fresh produce.

We watched the Super Bowl Sunday evening and like much of America, became somewhat disenchanted by the first half lopsidedness of the contest and downright bored when the lights went out only to bite our nails and hold our breath at the end.

As mentioned above, the temperatures plummeted in the wee hours of Monday morning. Since we live at the very bottom of a valley, the surrounding cold air settles and we were five to six degrees colder as a result.

Monday was busy none-the-less. I started the morning by grading and reading papers. With my body and eyes refreshed and the early morning light at a great angle, I took advantage and plowed through fifteen assignments.

By midmorning, the temperature had risen to -6 degrees. I donned my winter walk-wear and clicked off five-and-a-half miles. It felt good to be alive.

There's plenty of room to spread your towel at the local beach

After a brief, post-hike, mandatory, Grandpa Nap, I loaded the four-wheeler and left for the lake. Now approaching three feet, I was surprised how much thicker the ice has become. 

I started my meat-gathering expedition on the wrong foot by managing to snag not one, but two jigs (lures) in my winter coat on two separate poles. On one, I had to cut the line, the other’s hook broke off as I was attempting to wrestle it from the fibers.

A broken line often spells the end of my fishing trip. Monofilament is difficult to see under the best of conditions. Poking the end of the line through a teeny eyelet is, at best, a crapshoot. Still, I went ahead and set up the Clam hoping that with the aid of a magnifier, I might be able to find the eyelet.

While connecting the sonar fish finder to the battery, one of the wires came out of the clamp on the positive charge side. I invoked the vocabulary of Grandpa Pennington as I pulled a pocketknife from my coat and stripped the wire, then wrapped it around the battery post. Eventually, the machine was working and the Clam set up.

My hand's not on fire. I'd just scooped a large crappie that had fallen off the hook from the hole in the ice getting my hands wet. (I got the crappie.) That's steam rising in the frigid air from my warm skin. It didn't stay warm for long.

I was lucky and managed to stab the end of the line through the eyelet of a new jig. FINALLY, with the radio playing music and heater going, I began fishing.

It was slow going for the first half hour, but once the fish started hitting, the next three hours flew by. In the end, I brought home four jumbo crappies, seven crappies that were medium-sized, considered keepers in anyone’s book, and five saucer-sized bluegill. A half-dozen out-of-season bass and several undersized crappie and bluegills were caught and returned. Sargie and Tom won’t be starving for fish anytime soon.

I had just finished cleaning the fish when Sargie arrived home from work. We decided to go out and grab a sandwich to celebrate the great yearly review she received on Monday morning. They could have skipped the entire process and just asked me. I’d have told them my optician is the best in the whole, wide, world!

I’ve been asked by the university to write a narrative about the time I helped a Native student by taking care of her baby and later, skinning a caribou so she could get caught up on homework. It wasn’t a big deal to me, but evidently it is to the university. I’ll do that first thing this morning before I wade into the stack of digital papers that have come in during the night.

I also have fishing lines to repair, an electrical clamp to affix to the sonar, five miles to walk, a Grandpa Nap to take, and if that isn’t enough, go out in search of meat for the table. After all, a man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…