New Year’s Day 2003 started off with an unforgettable bang of flags flying and reels screaming. My friend Mike and I planned to kick off the New Year with a little ice fishing on Trickey Pond in Naples. This was to be Mike’s first and definitely not last ice fishing trip. We started the morning early, meeting at my place nearly three hours before we could even set our traps. Mike showed up at my doorstep right on time and rearing to go with an indescribable excitement that could never be adequately explained. Geared up with only the warmest clothes he could find and a backpack full of snacks (he felt he needed to contribute somehow), he was quick to spring into my already warmed up truck and let me show him what turned out to be the day of his life. Mike seemed to be overly concerned with his attire, not wanting to look like the inexperienced fisherman he was. “You’ll be fine” I assured him. “Off to the bait shop” I said as he sat in the passenger seat with an orange-capped bait bucket nestled between his feet. “You’re going to love the guy at the bait shop” I said as I explained to Mike the personality of ‘Roger’, the owner of Knights Bait Shop. Roger is a unique fella in his seventies who was born and raised in a small town in Washington County. He owns and operates his small business directly out of his garage in quiet little Raymond, Maine, and loves to hear about the fish people catch with the bait he supplies. I like to bring him a salmon every once in a while and hear his stories about the old days of fishing when he was like me, willing to fight the elements just for the opportunity of landing a decent fish.
As we pulled up to his shop, no lights were on and I was worried that the year before may have been his last year of selling bait. I proceeded to ring his doorbell, and sure enough Roger came to the door with a coat half pulled on and boots with laces untied and dragging on the ground. “You got me out of bed’ he replied and followed with a gut wrenching nasty cough that would have brought most men to their knees. Not Roger though, he proceeded to open up the shop for us and ask us where we were headed at such an early hour.
“We’re headed to Trickey” I replied and he began to tell us about the big salmon he had heard of being caught there in years past.
“You want smelts then” he replied as I shook my head yes. “Let me see your bucket” he said while coughing profusely again.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“Just got this stinking flu and the pharmacy is closed for me to get my medicine” he replied.
“Oh… I’ll take two and a half dozen” I replied as he netted me the finest smelts I’ve seen in a long time. “Smelts are hard to come by for me this year” he said, “They (IF&W) have closed my primary lake to commercial smelting….and this may be all I have for awhile” again followed by an pneumonia-like cough that widened Mike’s eyes and would cause us both later to agree that we were worried about his making it through the winter.
With that said I paid him cash and wished him good luck with the business. By the time Mike and I returned to the truck, three vehicles had pulled in to Rogers shop looking for bait as well. I turned to Mike and said, “Let’s get going so we can beat any potential crowds to my spot”. Mike agreed and as he looked back at the gathering of headlights now in the driveway he said, “Let’s hope those guys aren’t headed to Trickey!” and then smiled ear to ear with a nervous eagerness only a rookie ice-fisherman can have.
The ride to the lake seemed short as Mike and I talked about how to set traps, pull in a fish, release fish, and the state rules and regulations that pertain to this body of water. Mike, having some experience with tropical marine biology, was interested in the different species of fish we’d be after and like most people that have never ice fished before, Mike was extremely concerned about the ice. “There is plenty of ice. We will be just fine” I told Mike, but he really didn’t know what to expect. I had checked the ice the day before and explained that 6 inches was more than enough for our purposes. We were traveling light with only a pull behind sled with an ice chisel, camp stove, and a dozen or so traps between us.
As we pulled down into the boat landing, it was our truck that made the first tracks in the layer of new snow, indicating that at least for the time being we’d have the pond to ourselves – a nice reward for the early risers. “Let’s load the sled and get out there,” I told Mike as I proceeded to check the batteries on my headlamp and spotlight. Mike, clearly excited, took a few minutes to “gear up” and put on his final layers of wool and warm-weather garb. He, eager to learn, continued with his questions about daily bag limits and cautiously optimistic stated, “If either one of us catches just one fish, I’ll be happy!”
“We’re just going to follow the shoreline down the lake a few hundred yards away from the landing to stay out of the traffic that the lake will experience in a couple hours” I explained. With our gear loaded, we stepped out on the ice and I chopped a hole for Mike to see how much ice was under our feet. “See, there is plenty” I said, as we continued to walk along the shoreline. Mike, quietly at first, followed my lead and later told me his concern for the ice brought on a deep fear that he had never experienced before. He quickly became more vocal about his uneasiness as the unmistakable sounds of early winter ice settling broke the pre-dawn silence.
“Joe, are you sure we’re okay out here? I am going to kill you if I fall through this ice!” he stated in a sarcastic tone that I knew was meant to mask true trembling.
“Just a little further, Mike. Keep that light out in front!” I replied, not nervous, but wanting to stay focused. Mike held the spotlight and walked behind me for approximately 20 minutes, shining ahead of us to see. In an instant, with a stern and serious voice I heard, “Joe!! What is that?” As Mike shined the light 60 ft in front of me, I could see the glare of the light on the ice disappear into rippling waves of water. “Let’s stop right here for now and check the ice” I said. With two easy chops of the chisel, water squirted up around the blade.
“Two inches.” I replied and Mike crept closer to the over hanging trees on the shore of the lake.
“Is that enough?” Mike inquired.
“It’s enough for just us, but I wouldn’t want to be jumping around out here” I explained in an attempt to assure him.
Apparently, that was enough to scare the heck out of my friend Mike since he never went further than three feet from shore for the next half hour or so. “It is fine, it’s good black ice!” I shouted back to Mike as I proceeded to chop our holes for fishing. With only two inches of ice, I made short work of chopping our ten holes. It bothered Mike to be on the “side-lines” while I got the holes ready, but I knew his fear would subside with time. After a few minutes of helping Mike unpack our gear near shore, Mike managed to work up the courage and cautiously come out on the ice to assist me with skimming the holes free of any slush and ice chips that remained from chopping. “We can start setting traps in a few minutes” I said as Mike cleaned up the last hole and the first glimpses of lighter sky appeared.
At the first minute we could fish, Mike stood beside me at the first hole and proceeded to dig into my pack in search for a trap. “Just grab one, anyone, they are all the same” I said, but Mike had to find the perfect one.
“I’m going to set this one on the bottom for a trout” as I explained to Mike how our chances for catching a brook trout in 3 ft of water were good with the bait suspended only inches from the bottom.
“I bet this catches one,” I said.
Mike responded harshly with “It better.”
Sensing Mike’s sarcasm, I laughed hysterically in his face. “To be honest, I’ll be happy to get a flag”, I said.
“Oh crap,” he said, “Don’t tell me that. I didn’t get out of bed at 2:00 this morning for nothing”. “Grab me a smelt,” I said, trying hard not to laugh.
Mike scooped out the perfect bait, and passed me the small fish quickly beginning to freeze to the net. “Now you have to be quick, but gentle with the bait,” I said as I hurriedly inserted the hook in the meat of the back just under the dorsal fin and dropped the smelt down the ice hole. “Now we set the flag and wait while we set the other traps”. Mike followed me to each hole. He watched with an analytic stare at my procedure for setting each trap, all the while looking hopefully back at each trap already baited and in the water.
“Why are you putting a sinker on the ice line by the spool” he asked, his questions consistently following each new step in the process.
“It is my marker,” I replied. “After we get a flag, I can tell how much line to put back out without having to sound the hole each time by using a pinched on sinker as a marker.”
“Wow, this is high tech,” he reacted. “I’m never going to learn all this so I can go fishing on my own. You are my guide, I want you to take me fishing every time I go” he said.
Again, I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. “Let’s hurry up and set the last five traps for salmon. These will go quick because I’m just going to set the bait immediately under the ice”.
As we walked toward our sixth hole that was yet to be set, I heard a quiet voice behind me mumble something. “What did you say?” I said.
“Is that flag on shore up?” he responded again in a louder voice.
“It sure is!” I said as we took a few steps closer. I realized that not only was Mike serious about learning his new sport, but he had eyes with the never before seen ability to see tiny orange tip-up flags in the pre-dawn darkness from over one hundred meters away.
“Let’s go!” Mike and I raced for that flag as quickly as we could. For a moment he forgot all about his fear of the ice and acted like a child on Christmas morning running for that flag. “He’s taking line. Let’s let him run with it a bit longer” I said. After the spool turned fifteen or twenty times more, I said “TAKE HIM!” Mike slowly pulled the trap out the water and handed it to me while grabbing the ice line in his right hand.
“What do I do? I don’t want to lose it” Mike cried.
“Just set the hook and pull him in slowly. If it feels like he might break the line, let him run while keeping tension on the line with your fingers.”
With that crash course in fighting a fish under the ice, Mike began to slowly pull the fish toward the hole. “He’s fighting good” he said.
“Just keep it coming slow and steady” I replied.
Within a minute the leader made its way into Mike’s fingers. “Be careful Mike, he’s close. Let him run if he wants to.” Before I could finish my sentence, line ripped through Mike’s fingers as the fish made a strong run from the hole.
“Holy cow! This is unbelievable!” Mike screamed.
“Just take your time and bring him to me” I said.
Shortly, the leader reappeared, then a swivel, and just three feet beyond that I could see the head of a large splake flash beneath the hole. “When he seems tired, work his head in the hole and I’ll grab him.” All of a sudden, the large head appeared in the hole thrashing from side to side.
“I got him!” I said, as I reached below the fish and scooped him up onto the ice.
“WOW!” Mike screamed. “Is that a good one?” he asked.
“Heck yeah”, I replied, “That is a splake over twenty inches”. With the fish flopping on the ice, I quickly began to wind line back onto the spool before it froze.
