I tried ice fishing once. It did not go well.
My late Uncle Paul made arrangements with a Lake Erie charter captain he knew to take us ice fishing on the West Basin. The captain met us on a beach near East Harbor and we piled into an early ’50s Chevy convertible.
It wasn’t an actual convertible. It was a hardtop with the roof cut off. It didn’t appear that the roof had been removed with conventional cutting tools; more like it had been gnawed off by Godzilla.
As we rolled out onto the ice en route to the ice shanty, the captain announced, “If you hear ice cracking, jump clear.”
I felt like jumping right then and there, just to be on the safe side. Had someone so much as cracked his knuckles, I would have been out of there and turning horizontal cartwheels across the ice.
We made it to our shanty unscathed, piled in and bid the captain adieu.
We sat around a hole in the ice, dangling hooks baited with minnows — for no apparent reason.
Hours passed without so much as a nibble. The minnows died from exposure.
Unlike warm weather fishing, you can’t move to another spot when the fish aren’t biting. We were stuck in the shanty until the charter captain returned.
We passed the time with idle conversation, during which each of us confessed that we hadn’t bothered to bring our fishing licenses. After all, who’s going to come out there in the bitter cold checking licenses?
We were talking about how things couldn’t possibly get worse when we heard a snowmobile pull up followed by a knock at the door.
“Game warden,” a man outside announced.
This was published earlier this year — one of my outdoors columns for the Ashland Times-Gazette and Loudonville Times-Shopper.