Forever Young Magazine

January 2007
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Section: Life & Leisure

On Thin Ice
By Biff Henrich

I am haunted by ice. Some talk about the spirituality and the metaphor for life that fishing is to them. I fall into that camp, but it can be a slippery position — becoming more so on ice.

Generally, a large part of the allure of fishing, whether one is aware of it or not, comes from the one-on-one interaction with the natural world, unencumbered by the clutter of people and their accompanying nonsense. The extreme environment where ice fishing takes place heightens that experience. It is cold — sometimes painfully so. It can be windy — the kind of wind that stings. It has the hint of danger. You could fall through the ice and turn into a sub-zero statue in minutes. Your instincts are to leave, but you stay. Intentionally.

My first fishing experience was ice fishing. It is also one of the first life experiences I can remember. I was about five years old and spent several hours with my father and a friend of his, laying on the ice looking into the hole trying to see fish. Let’s be clear, I was lying on the ice. The old guys were standing. The inability to feel cold is something kids have that goes away with puberty. At that age, you can play in the snow or lay on the ice until you are nearly stiff and not know you are cold. It is only ten minutes after you come inside that your whole body ignites in an itchy fire that feels like you were living in a nest of mosquitoes for a week. Cold water feels warm on your fingers. Your nose runs like a track meet. What stands out to me most about that first ice fishing day was the perch that I caught. It left an impression on me that I will never shake. Nor do I want to. The green and yellow stripes with the orange trim still make the perch the most beautiful of fish to me. I don’t always fish for them, but I never mind catching one. That memory also formed an attraction for winter weather that endures in me today.

There is always a nervous excitement about walking out on that ice. Will it hold? There are two guidelines that I follow. Go where other people go and don’t walk on the black ice. Black ice means thin ice. My preferences are not to go on large lakes but smaller lakes and ponds. The ice freezes faster and the risks are smaller. One cold winter day I started out across Case Lake in Franklinville with two friends. Within ten steps my right foot went through the ice and I was standing there with one foot up to my knee in the frigid water. My day was over. I had stepped in another fisherman’s hole that had a skim coat of ice on it and I couldn’t tell it was only a quarter of an inch think. Why that guy was ice fishing in fourteen inches of water is beyond me. I guess some guys that ice fish are cold-blooded animals. I was glad one of my friends had some extra socks. At least I was warm in the car.

Preparing for an ice fishing excursion is actually quite easy. Put on all the clothes you own, find some solid ice, and stand on it. Oh, there are some incidentals like bringing some gear, drilling a hole in the ice and setting up some rods, but that is almost a nuisance. Some people drag little tents but they are denying the true nature of ice fishing. The real reason to go is to stand there. You may be with a friend. In fact, common sense dictates you go with one, for safety reasons. But that friend is several yards away and not always part of your inner experience. Outdoor winter weather is felt like no other weather. There is a connection with the vastness of the world and the frailty of man that manifests in harsh conditions. Your senses are on red alert. Every change around you is magnified. There is a satisfying feeling (although perhaps an illusion) that survival is an accomplishment and end in itself. Ice fishing, unlike any other outdoor experience I have, makes me feel a part of the natural world and not separate from it. It is timeless , and I can sense all time. This is, once again, the same moment I first lay on the ice all those years ago. (Except, since I am post puberty, I stand.)

Norman Maclean writes in his wonderful book, A River Runs Through It, “I am haunted by waters.” I am haunted by ice.