Tuesday started my ice fishing season... with few fish, but lots of fresh air.

December 11, 2013 – Wednesday

-13 degrees/clear/calm

Pentoga Road

I awakened shortly after 3 AM this morning to heed nature’s call and after doing so, lay in bed listening to the oil furnace as it churned out hot air while burning expensive heating oil. After fifteen minutes, it finally shut off.

The oil tank is mostly full, we’re not paupers, and even when a refill is required later this winter, the oil company doesn’t require immediate payment. It’s manageable. With that in mind, I was almost asleep when I heard the furnace begin again.

I gave up on sleep and came downstairs, rekindled the fire in the wood stove, made coffee, and settled into my recliner to start the day. I’ve been up for almost an hour and a half, the living room is approaching 70 degrees and the rest of the house is warming nicely. Best of all, the furnace isn’t running.

The thermometer was registering -5 Tuesday morning as I packed the ice fishing equipment onto the four-wheeler. After topping off a low tire with air, I applied the choke, coaxed the machine to life, and a few minutes later, I was chugging down Pentoga Road on my way to the lake.

It was chilly. No, it was downright cold. The wind whipping across the ice reminded me that though this isn’t Alaska, the UP can hold it’s own when it comes to wintry conditions.

I’d started the auger earlier and the machine didn’t disappoint me. Quick work was made as I drilled holes through the six to eight inches of ice and two tip-ups were quickly set out with sucker minnows swimming under each. Blowing on my hands, I set up the Clam shelter and began jigging.

Word is out that fishing has been lousy and that certainly proved to be the case on Tuesday. I did my best to coerce anything to hit my jig and was rewarded with only one small bass over the next two hours.

There was fish activity showing on the portable sonar and occasionally, a school would gather around my bait, but nothing would bite. Chilled and getting colder, I gathered my belongings, packed the equipment, and came back home. It appears we’re going to have a long winter and there’ll be ample opportunities to gather meat for the table when the weather returns to more seasonable norms.

It’s worrisome that my body doesn’t seem to tolerate the cold like it has in years past. Possessing a fine pair of Big Bird legs, long johns became an integral part of my standard daily winter wear several years ago. There’s zero fat on those legs of mine and they are usually the first appendages to complain of the cold temperatures.

I’ve noticed that my body is beginning to rebel against being exposed to long periods of below zero temperatures that, emboldened with a stiff wind, tend to make me shiver. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d have stayed out on the ice all day, regardless of the conditions, and silently laughed at those lesser men who couldn’t take the cold.

I’ve always felt sorry for the older fishermen, those who openly admitted they couldn’t tolerate the cold like they once did. In my mind, it was like watching the old Eskimo wander out onto the ice, his usefulness at an end, waiting for a polar bear to take him to the big igloo in the sky.

And so it is with me, now that my tolerance for below zero temperatures and windy conditions is beginning to wane, that I am only able to fish until I get cold, then I wander off the ice and come home.

Am I sad? Not on your life. I’m happy to let those ego-driven young guys stand out on the ice for hours at a time in the name of putting meat on the table and secretly making fun of us lesser men.

And you thought this was going to have a sad ending. No ice pack and polar bears for me… just a hot cup of coffee and a warm recliner at the end of an ice fishing day. My ego’s firmly intact.

Page Two

Nothing, absolutely NOTHING, smells or tastes better than a big pot of stew or soup bubbling on the kitchen stove during the long, dark, cold, days of winter. I set a kettle of split pea and ham soup on the stove before I left to go fishing and was rewarded with the most delicious smells several hours later as I entered the house. That, combined with a large pie tin of warm, freshly baked, corn bread, made our supper last night. I ate two large bowls of soup and half the bread, smothered in real butter and honey. It made shivering on the ice all worthwhile.

My sister-in-law, Nancy called with a computer problem. Putting our heads together, we got that fixed and after, had a wonderful conversation.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon grading final projects, listening to Christmas music, carrying in wood, and trying to convince Brutus he doesn’t have to be continually at my side when I’m in the house.

I get up from my recliner and go into the kitchen, Brutus walks with me. Carrying in wood? The bulldog is there. Putting wood in the stove… he usually has his head between the firebox and me; so much so, I’m fearful he’ll get burned.

I tried to put my foot down late yesterday afternoon. I was perched upon the reading throne in the bathroom, trying to absorb some important information gleaned from the sports page of a day-old newspaper. I hadn’t latched the door and had just settled onto a very cold seat when Brutus nudged the door open.

Our bathroom is small and the stool is at the far end. The bulldog wandered in, sat in front of me, and laid his head on my lap. I was trapped, literally, and no amount of pointing, talking, or cajoling, could get the pup to move. Any thoughts of reading were abandoned and instead, we had a dog to man talk.

It kind of reminded me of my childhood days, while camping with our family, thinking what a treat it was to use a two-hole outhouse; me covering one hole, my sister perched over the other. I was three or four years old; she was six or so. It was so much fun; to sit and talk and I remember wishing that we could have a two-holer at home, rather than conventional running water and a stool, so we could continue our outhouse chats year round.

So Brutus and I chatted. In the end, I made several attempts to leave him behind as I wandered around the house, but it was to no avail. It appears that even though we don’t own one, I’ve got a two-hole outhouse buddy for life.

Sargie was home early last night. After supper, we enjoyed a quiet evening by the fire, listening to television, talking, and doing a bit of Christmas window shopping online.

I’m not sure what today will bring. With a forecast high of -1 and breezy conditions, I doubt I’ll be doing much fishing. I think I’ll do the old guy thing and keep away from the polar bears, hang around inside the house ensuring the woodstove remains full, grade a few papers as they come in, sip coffee, think deep thoughts, and take that all important afternoon grandpa nap.

After all, a man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…