Ice fishing story

[DanielJRioux]

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by David Bartholow

[font "Verdana,Arial,Helevetica,Sans Serif"][black][size 1]PBR me, ASAP - Bartholow on Wind Lake. - photo by Luke Winn[/size][/black][/font]Wind Lake, Wis.-
Three chocolate glazed donuts and a liter of milk sit nicely on silvery, cold Sundays in rural Wisconsin. Though it was only 8 a.m., driving north on I-94 felt necessary and refreshing, an interstate to frigid refuge during an otherwise unseasonably warm Midwestern winter. Dull, flat northern Illinois somehow turned to the snow-covered, low-rolling hills of Waukesha County on Highway 20 west of Milwaukee, bringing us straight to a windy glacial puddle and some six-pound Northerns. 36-inch fish, not so uncommon on any Sunday. Perfect day for ice fish.

It took only an hour from Evanston, with the car on autopilot to a half-day arctic venture. Our destination, the stadium-sized Wind Lake, was surrounded by bars, houses and trees, and played host to heated shanties and hardy men with lines, minnows, and hopes for a $15 prize and local recognition. A tournament of sorts was taking place, but no one really knew that. Ok, I guess a few did.

Bearing down for the Chicago winters in my college years has made me forget the rare weather-induced friskiness I once enjoyed in my Texas youth. Locals of Wind Lake and beyond, the residents of neighboring Cudahy, Franklin and Muskego, have lived here their whole lives and still react like Scottish terriers in the fresh January dawn.

As my eyes and ears quickly learn, the men of these towns, both young and old, cherish their ice fishing in fanatical ways. At the time, this was certainly clear, but I can't really say I understood why.

[font "Verdana,Arial,Helevetica,Sans Serif"][black][size 1]Father Allan and son Alec Jakubowski, on Wind Lake - photo by Luke Winn[/size][/black][/font]"It's the sport, I guess," assured Allan Jakubowski, 32, of Franklin, Wis. "If you want to call it a sport."

There are glamorous pastimes – fly fishing and flying, sailing, bridge, gold-panning in Colorado creeks, surfing – but ice fishing fails to invite the sort of dreamy romanticism I usually ascribe to such activities. Drill a hole with a 10-inch auger, arrange three tip-ups (lateral, unmanned poles) in any given order, and wait however long for an elusive nibble. That, roughly, makes up a day. Aging working adults spend every waking moment of their free time staring at their frozen territory. Middle school cronies skip the homework and hot supper to immerse themselves in miserable cold on a daily after-school basis.

Oh, I know. Ice fishing's not so much of a sport, really – it's a source, a lifestyle.

Nearly 100 yards into the vast, arctic expanse – chilled to 20 degrees, blanketed by two-day-old snow, frozen solid 10 inches deep – heavy gusts fan the crystal lake and chap my face beneath my scarf. Jakubowski and five-year-old son Alec fish in the same conditions with s and their jacket collars unfastened.

Dressed head-to-toe in a thick orange jumpsuit, the elder Jakubowski responds with little care when I ask a few questions and mention that I write for an unaffiliated Northwestern publication. Jakubowski's uneasiness toward my inquiry softens when I ask him whether he and his friends drink beer out here. He now fully realizes I'm not a nature cop from the DNR (Department of Natural Resources) investigating potentially unlawful fishing practices.

"I drink beer here and there," Jakubowski said. "Scott [Grams] is driving today, so I did bring a few."

Jakubowski's longtime co-worker and friend, Scott Grams, 35, of Cudahy, Wis., interjects our conversation with dense Midwestern sarcasm, and suggests I'm asking a fairly obvious question.

"Drink beer? Naah," Grams retorted glibly. "I do the whole hot chocolate thing."

According to Grams, ice fishing has every bit as much to do with atmoshperic enjoyment as it does with gritty polar sporting. While some ice fishers take the sport seriously, there are others who use the frozen lakes as rustic partying venues.

"Sometimes you'll get one of the jamborees with the meat grapples and snowmobiles and all the yahoos with a beer tent out on the lake," laughed Grams. "You'll just see a bunch of drunken idiots."

For an instant, I was worried that the idea of ice fishing as a bold, respectable sport was merely a front for a less meaningful recreational purpose. What about drilling holes (12-inch maximum legal diameter) and reeling fishing lines can't spawn more laudable inspiration, I wonder?

Later in the encounter, Jakubowski subdues my skepticism with allusions to nobler motivations. Feeding and providing for three young children and a wife has curtailed the ice fishing in recent years, but Jakubowski insists that aging offspring will make the sport a family affiar.

"Lately we've been only going out six or seven times a year. When the kids get older, I'm sure we'll be out here every weekend," Jakubowski said. "Alec loves coming out here, especially when we grill out, you know. Hot dogs, hamburgers, whatever."

"You could be inside and warm, but the wife's at home," added Jakubowski only half-seriously.

As I had indeed hoped, ice fishing appeared as an outlet for open-air, old-fashioned fun. The trite notion of father and child fishing the day away on a glassy lake with chips, sodas and sandwiches was fondly confirmed, only this was the thick-skinned Scandinavian version of such cliche. Grams and the Jakubowskis genuinely savor the season outdoors, dodging radiator-heated comfort for layered winter warmth.

Beneath its curious veneer, ice fishing seemed far more typical in the way of so-called pastimes.

As I moved farther across Wind Lake, a few reticent fishermen flat-out denied my attempts to engage in a friendly, sporting discussion. Perhaps I couldn't fathom the depths of their passion anyway. Onward. My numbed feet led me to a clutter of shanties and a trio of dedicated young ice fisherman.

[font "Verdana,Arial,Helevetica,Sans Serif"][black][size 1]The Guenther elders on Wind Lake - photo by Luke Winn[/size][/black][/font]Tom Guenther, 12, of Wind Lake, stands straight, but low to the ground. The paternal genes have rendered Tom a pure pedigreed ice fisherman. Guenther points to his father and grandfather 50 yards away, who are standing, smoking and drinking by a sizable shanty guarded by two sparkling ATVs. The elders have fished this lake their whole lives.

"My daddy's out here at 5:30 p.m. every weekday ," Guenther said. "He's been out here since 5:30 this morning."

When asked who out here could spot a tip-up from a mile away, Guenther and friends Kyle Castelleon, 13, and Matt Hirsch, 14, both of Muskego, reply in unison, "My ('his,' 'your') grandpa."

Guenther ruminates over his father's catch of the day, a 32-inch Northern that could win him the $15 purse being offered by Oak Creek Fish and Gun Club in the tournament, or rather, jamboree. It's likely that he'll win because no one out here seems to know that a tournament's even taking place.

Tournament or not, the boys would be out here anyway. Close-quartered camp-outs and long nights of ice fishing are standard fare on weekends and holidays. When school's out, Wind Lake's most devoted fisherman won't be found elsewhere. Even on school days, they never fail to get in a solid seven hours of ice fishing.

For the trio, the grand appeal of ice fishing lies in the mystery bite behind each tip-up. The sweet uncertain solitude of catching fish.

"When you get a tip-up, you don't know what's on it," Castelleon asserted. "So you just want to see what it is."

[font "Verdana,Arial,Helevetica,Sans Serif"][black][size 1]The jamboree headquarters, near Wind Lake - photo by David Bartholow[/size][/black][/font]Living and breathing this arctic sport, Castelleon innocently fails to consider the regional confines of his recreational passion.

"Wait, there's no ice fishing in Texas," he asked in earnest when I revealed my home state, as if to suggest he's never had a reason to wonder otherwise.

As a nearby tip-up distracts the boys from our conversation, I walk away, letting Wind Lake's burgeoning outdoorsmen return to the task at hand.

Without knowing it, Wind Lake's young princes embody the sort of uncorrupted nostalgia of boyhood glorified in Mark Twain novels – three boys of rustic origins engrossed in ice fishing and each other, all driven by an inexpressible mutual companionship. In time, the boys will age into adulthood, and here they will forever remain, fishing away day by day, until their kids wake up early on Sundays years and years later, and do exactly the same.