No trophies here, but "they'll eat!"

January 14, 2017 - Saturday
6 degrees/clear/calm winds
Pentoga Road

I'm sitting here feeling mighty fine and sassy this morning. You see, yesterday, I got my fishing mojo back. I caught my limit of twenty-five bluegills. Uh huh, you read it right. Watch out, the old professor is back in the house!

But first, before I regale you with all kinds of fishing yarns, I did more on Friday than just pull bluegills out of a hole in the ice.

The day began with the thermometer registering twelve below zero. As the morning progressed, the temperature dropped, finally recording -17 before it began its uphill journey.

Yooper Brother Mark sent a text saying they had -20 at the plant. 

Strange, it didn't seem that cold. The sun was out and there wasn't any breeze. By any other standards, it was a beautiful day.



I took advantage of it and went on my usual walk. After, I got everything ready to bring the ice shack back home. Rather than overthink the pin situation of how to hook the draw bar onto the shack, I simply used heavy wire, something that would have been one of my quick fixes during my much younger days. 

There were between two and three feet of fluffy snow at the boat landing. I had to make a path going in on the Tundra, then go back and forth several times making a trail on which to pull the shack up a steep hill and out onto the road.



To make a long story short, it all went like clockwork. The wire worked better than any of the homemade pins I attempted to make and the shack was soon back alongside the barn.

Who knows why we do what we do, but after coming in the house to warm up, I decided to make a batch of cookies.



These were of the macadamia nut/raisin variety. 

I love cookies. No, you obviously didn't understand, I LOVE COOKIES. That's the reason I don't bake more of them. It's impossible for me to walk by a plate full and not grab at least one, usually two or three, and four cookies in one swipe isn't uncommon. In fact, I enjoyed several with a large glass of cold milk last night just before going to bed. 

See that cookie sheet above? All but two are gone, vanished, bye-bye. Sargie ate one last night when she arrived home from work. Hmm, let's guess where the rest disappeared to.

Despite the frigid temperature, Friday was too nice a day not to do something outside. I loaded the ice fishing gear onto the sleigh I made last year and took off for an area lake, one I've not fished for some time.

 

I'd mention what body of water it was, but then I'd have to render you mute, or worse, remove your vocal chords, erase your memory, and break both of your arms. Yooper Brother Mark knows where I went, but then he knows about everything I do. If Mississippi Brother Garry wants to tell his friends, that's okay. Anybody who will drive a thousand miles to catch a lowly bluegill through a hole in the ice deserves to know. I'll take Neighbor Mike. He and I have fished there together anyway.

But then there's baby brother, The Very Reverend Dr. Pat, that mainstay of Presbyterian clergy everywhere. The boy may be very reverend when it comes to Baby Jesus, but he can't keep a secret when it comes to divulging a good fishing place. 

Though he lives in California, I'm still not going to tell him where I caught my fish.

No one, absolutely no one, had been on the lake since it snowed earlier in the week. Getting out onto the ice was a chore and pulling the sled with the power auger and shelter was brutal. With each step, I sunk through two feet of snow only to break through into several inches of slushy cold water. 



There's always a light at the end of the rainbow. I realized my efforts were going to be rewarded after drilling the first hole and looking at the sonar. Who cares about cold temperatures and slush. There were fish everywhere.

I was soon pulling in one bluegill after another. Running out of wax worms was no big deal. I simply put on an artificial bait with continued success. The old Tommy P was back. Testosterone was flowing and the adrenaline was pumping. Finally, I was putting meat on the table. 

I imagined that once she found out, Sargie would arrange to have a brass band play when I pulled in the drive, there'd be speeches, a key to a nearby city, outdoor magazines would want to interview me, and no doubt, our President elect would give me a fishing certificate of merit along with a free weekend stay at Trump Tower for Sargie and me... or not.

Hey, there's a bit of Walter Mitty in all of us. Cut me some slack, would you? It's been a long time since I've caught a decent mess of fish.

After several hours of sitting in zero degree temperatures, I realized it was getting dark, but the fish wouldn't quit hitting. There was that little voice, my guardian angel, deep inside that kept telling me to get home. I ignored the warning. After two ice fishing seasons of fiddling and fumbling around with little to show for it, I was back to my old self. A guy's got to make hay while the sun shines, doesn't he? Problem was, the sun had set.

There was another problem. I'd become hypothermic, plus I'd lost all feeling in both feet. My hands were numb and to ice the cake, I had to drive home in the dark. Suddenly, the adrenalin of good fishing had completely worn off and it hit me. My body shook with cold and I had to concentrate as I contemplated the long, cold, hard walk back to shore. 

Thankfully, I'd done something right. I'd brought my headlamp.  The trek began, one step at a time, pulling the heavy sleigh while wading through deep snow and sinking into the cold, watery, slush. After stopping several times to rest and catch my breath, I made it back to shore by following my old footsteps.

I sat in the car for fifteen minutes, not going anywhere, reflecting on that very foolish, after-dark walk to shore. The heater was on full blast, but I couldn't feel the warmth. 

I used to tell those newbies I taught in Alaska that that's how dumb people die. They get caught up in what they are doing and lose all common sense. I don't think I've been that cold and completely exhausted since I lived in the Arctic. 

The day has come when I need to realize that I'm not as young as I once was, that my super powers are on the wane, and that someday, doing something stupid could catch up to me. Tommy P may have his fishing mojo back, but he needs to start using some common sense.

Due to the macular degeneration, I'm night blind. Unless there's at least some sort of ambient light, I can't see a thing. Able to make out a berm caused by a snow plow alongside the road, I was able to creep back home on a very rural road. Thankfully, there was little traffic. At one point, a pick up truck sped up behind me and after a bit, began flashing his lights and honking his horn. The jack ass finally went around me, no doubt waving a digital appendage in my direction. I know he received one from me.

Back home and sitting by fire, tears ran down my face as my feet and toes thawed. I'd severely frozen them years ago while caught out in the Brooks Range and since, it takes very little for them to freeze again. They hurt every bit as much last night as they did the first time they became blocks of ice.

The feet were swollen and suffering last night. The middle toe was frozen solid and too painful to put on shoes, my biggest fear was that I would stub it on something in the house. 

A hot shower and meal soon had me going again and by the time Sargie arrived home, I was once again hitting on all cylinders. I wasn't much company as I fell asleep on the couch. Sargie woke me later in the evening and pointed me up the stairs to bed where I slept soundly all night. All's well that ends well.

Sargie's off today. Other than frying fish tonight, I'm not sure what we'll do, but that'll be her decision. I've had yesterday's catch thawing in the sink for the past couple of hours so I guess I better get busy and start filleting fish. It's what we fishermen, those of us who put meat on the table, do every now and then.

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

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

Brutus's house is well insulated... with snow. There's a tunnel at the entrance.