When winter settles in on Canadian lakes and the layer of ice that seals in an underwater world is finally thick enough to venture on, people gather up their gear and head out.
I had much to learn about ice fishing when I moved to the Cariboo. The first thing I learned from my patient instructor was that ice fishing has its own dress code, which is anything goes. For a certain age group, it’s an opportunity to use a whole pile of things that you’ve kept for years because “they’ll be great for ice fishing.” Heavy wool pants, huge boots that weigh as much as concrete blocks, a roomy old hunting parka and an extra-large toque. Pure Cariboo, and what I was given to wear for my forays onto the ice.
On my first day out, gear was loaded onto a sled and we trudged far out on the ice like polar explorers. Seemed like a lot of work. I watched how a hole was drilled. Then it was time to put a maggot on a hook. Of course, I got the old advice, used by Caribooers to make greenhorns squeamish, “You have to put the maggots inside your bottom lip to keep them warm and active.”
It was all new to me and I was hooked the moment I actually caught a fish, a shiny silver trout. Small spots of colour ran in delicate lines on its wide body. I couldn’t do the unhooking or the slaughtering, but saw that a wooden bonker was a quick and merciful tool.
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By mid-afternoon, everything became soft shades of pink and mauve and a light snow began to fall. Several trout were in a cooler and “shiners,” which I learned were not good eating, had been thrown out onto the ice and scooped up by the eagles who had been waiting nearby all day. Patches of fog had come and gone. It was like being in a Bateman painting come to life.
After that, we fished on small lakes and long lakes, on gray cold days and on perfect blue sky ones. One early morning in March, we set out for Snag Lake, west of 100 Mile House. The snow was still deep but the road was passable. There was no one at the lake when we pulled into the picnic site.
My instructor went around to the back of the truck. I hadn’t noticed anything in there earlier. He lowered the tailgate and pulled out two pieces of plywood about five feet long. A round hole had been cut in each piece near one end and the edges neatly sanded. Well, I thought, I guess we’re putting up a temporary outhouse. Then I noticed ropes tied on each, sled-style. Well, I guess he plans to pull these down the lake and set it up. He ignored my questions, just smiled, We loaded gear, thermoses and lunch onto the plywood, picked up the ropes, and headed out onto the lake.
The sun was warm, there was a thin skiff of snow and the only sound was the slide of the sleds. We stopped, he drilled a fishing hole for each of us, scooped out the slush and pulled one of the plywood sheets over a hole. Then he put a hook and bait on a line, plunked down on the plywood and put his face and the line into the hole. He told me to do the same and start “jigging” when I saw a fish.
I did and was stunned by what I saw. The hole in the thick ice was like a crystal tube that reflected the colours of the sky and the yellow shades of the sand below. The lake bottom was so close. Minute creatures traced delicate trails in the sand and tiny weeds moved in slow motion. When a fish suddenly slid into sight, I forgot to jig my line.
As the day went on and the sun moved overhead, and it was warm and comfortable with your head on an arm encircling the hole, who cared if you never caught a fish that day.
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