Ice fishing proves worthwhile endeavor for Inland Northwest winter anglers

One of my friends takes off for Arizona each winter about the time ice begins to form on area lakes. He refers to himself as a “snow bird.” I call him a “wimp.”

I’ve never been able to figure out why anyone would leave this country just as ice fishing is about to begin. I find it perplexing that a lot of folks view the sport the same way they view going to work. When the pheasant season is over and the walls are closing in, fishing through the ice is my favorite winter activity.

Oh, I’ve considered other winter sports. My neighbors build a huge ice rink on their acreage each winter and invite me to participate, but I never got the hang of ice skating. I did try as a kid when everyone had skating rinks in their backyards. But I was a source of neighborhood amusement. The blades of my skates never touched the ice – I was the only kid on the block who played hockey on the sides of his ankles.

I tried sledding, too, but the walk back up the hill with my Flexible Flyer was not nearly as exhilarating as the ride down. As for skiing, it seemed kind of silly to wait in line in the cold just for the chance to hurt yourself.

There is no reason I should catch fish through the ice. One hole augured in frozen water looks the same as another, and there are usually many acres from which to choose. Everyone is equal in ice fishing. Luck, tenacity and the ability to ignore cold hands and feet are more significant than skill. You also don’t want to get caught up too much in appearances as “dork hats” and bulky coats are the norm, and frozen “runoff” from a drippy nose is never appealing.

Despite the odds, a 9-inch trout or perch will often come twisting up out of the darkness, their shimmering colors a strong contrast to the snow. This sudden emergence of life into light is part of the magic of ice fishing, and my joy far exceeds the simplicity of the act.

If an ice fisherman is having no success, he will leave the unproductive hole and wander in a seemingly haphazard path, studying bumps and cracks as if they might provide clues to where the fish are lurking. Soon, he finds himself close to a person who is catching fish. “Doin’ any good?” he asks as he begins to drill a hole.

He strikes up a conversation then – nothing political or religious or even particularly interesting – just small talk that connects one red-nosed being with another on a 5-degree morning when more “civilized” folks are lounging before a warm fire with no idea of what they are missing.