In the South, ice is a summer thing. It keeps your lemonade or your sweet tea cold and refreshing as you sit on the loggia, under lazily spinning fans, watching puffy clouds drift across the Smoky Mountain vista. You dump bags of it into coolers when you are going picnicking or fishing so that your food and drinks don’t become tepid. It is a necessity in long, hot, humid days. It is a friend. A blessing.
In North Dakota, ice is a winter thing. It hides as a slippery crust under deepening blankets of new-fallen snow. It hangs in long, glistening icicles from eaves and mailboxes and trees. It creeps across the glistening surface of quiet lakes . . . thickening day by day . . . until even the fish are encased below its opaque coldness. It is a fact to contend with and can even be a danger to plan for. It is a familiar companion . . . even a friend, when you get to fish on it.
When I tell my friends here in East Tennessee that I went ice fishing, they just shake their head in southern skepticism. When I tell them it was a worthy adventure and absolutely fun, they stare at me in stunned disbelief. But . . . they never went fishing with Kirk.
Kirk Ohlheiser was utterly prepared for this adventure. He had all the gear. Trust me . . . alllllllllll the gear. He brought two ice huts, two heaters, a large auger, fishing poles, and live minnows. Holly brought sandwiches, chips, and beverages for the whole crew. And, of course, we had our borrowed “warm clothing gear” that Holly had procured from her friend. So we loaded up the trucks and drove to the boonies. Southerners were going ice fishing.
First, I had to emotionally deal with the idea of traversing across a frozen lake. I had heard stories of people falling through ice. Everything in my southern mentality screamed that winter lakes were full of very cold WATER . . . even if the water was temporarily hidden by a small crust of ice. If I was going to pull this off gracefully, pure Reid grit would have to win over southern sensibility.
Mercifully, Kirk decided to haul all the gear out onto our fishing destination by foot instead of driving. That saved me the embarrassment of frantically flinging the truck door open, dumping myself into the ridiculously deep snow, and walking across the lake all by myself. I had already made a very loud, solemn promise to everyone in the truck that I WOULD NOT, by any means of coercion, DRIVE onto that ice. If I was going down into the numbing waters through the ice, I WOULD NOT DO IT in a truck. I was quite sure God had heard my panicked prayers when Kirk decided that we would park the trucks and walk.
I learned several things on our adventure out onto that frozen lake:
First, the exertion of hauling gear is morphed into Everest-like effort when the air is too cold to breathe. Tucking your face into your scarf helps until your breath condenses into ice on the scarf’s fibers. Then nothing helps.
Second, laughing keeps you warm. It shoots life-giving joy through your lungs and your body and your soul. And it keeps your definitions of the adventure from wandering into thoughts of impossibility.
Third, frozen lakes are the perfect place to make snow angels. Unbelievably perfect. But if you refuse to fall back and try to make your own, Rachel will shove you backwards to encourage the process. Ask Mattie.
Fourth, trust Kirk. He doesn’t just ice fish, he ice fishes IN STYLE. Gracious service. Lush accommodations. And a delightful dose of very dry humor to keep everyone sharp. If you MUST go ice fishing, go with Kirk.
Fifth, everything freezes on ice. That seems like a grand statement of the obvious, but it is really true. Beverages freeze. Sandwiches freeze. Feet freeze. Even the fishing hole you just augured freezes over and captures your fishing line in its incessant grip. THAT, I finally figured out, was what the spoon scoop was for. It wasn’t a soup ladle. It was an ice-crust scooper. Go figure.
Sixth, girls fish differently than guys. David, my husband and I were in one hut. Holly, Rachel, Jamie, Mattie, and Chad were in the other hut. Kirk, stationed in my hut, visited between both huts to make sure everyone was fine. My hut was the “guy hut.” My hut was quiet. Chad endured the “girl hut.” I am not really sure what transpired in the other hut, but it sure sounded like a hoot-n-holler hoe-down to me. I never heard a peep from Chad, however. The only real excitement in our hut was when my husband decided to dump some of the live minnows into our fishing hole to see if he could coax some big fish our direction. We all sat around that hole, watching the minnows swim in a circle, while my husband declared, “Be free, little guys! Be free!” Ice eventually starts to mess with a southerner’s sanity, apparently.
Frozen lakes are starkly beautiful places. The only noise is your noise. The only warmth is the richness of your fellowship and the dependability of your heaters. The only colors are the white of the snow, the azure-gray of the ice, and the deep, cold blue of the North Dakota sky. And when the sun goes down, the deepening strokes of orange, purple and pink are stunning beyond description. I loved it in such a deeply, satisfying way. As we were chatting in our hut, David wistfully said, “I could stay here all night.” I understood.
We didn’t catch any fish that day, but we captured a memory that will last a life-time. When I talk with my Tennessee friends about it, their minds can’t really get past the idea of that much ice and that much snow and that much cold. They gaze at me extremely doubtfully when I say that they would love it. I guess you just had to be there. With Kirk and Holly and the gang.
They would love it.
I am sure.
Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid
In North Dakota, ice is a winter thing. It hides as a slippery crust under deepening blankets of new-fallen snow. It hangs in long, glistening icicles from eaves and mailboxes and trees. It creeps across the glistening surface of quiet lakes . . . thickening day by day . . . until even the fish are encased below its opaque coldness. It is a fact to contend with and can even be a danger to plan for. It is a familiar companion . . . even a friend, when you get to fish on it.
When I tell my friends here in East Tennessee that I went ice fishing, they just shake their head in southern skepticism. When I tell them it was a worthy adventure and absolutely fun, they stare at me in stunned disbelief. But . . . they never went fishing with Kirk.
Kirk Ohlheiser was utterly prepared for this adventure. He had all the gear. Trust me . . . alllllllllll the gear. He brought two ice huts, two heaters, a large auger, fishing poles, and live minnows. Holly brought sandwiches, chips, and beverages for the whole crew. And, of course, we had our borrowed “warm clothing gear” that Holly had procured from her friend. So we loaded up the trucks and drove to the boonies. Southerners were going ice fishing.
First, I had to emotionally deal with the idea of traversing across a frozen lake. I had heard stories of people falling through ice. Everything in my southern mentality screamed that winter lakes were full of very cold WATER . . . even if the water was temporarily hidden by a small crust of ice. If I was going to pull this off gracefully, pure Reid grit would have to win over southern sensibility.
Mercifully, Kirk decided to haul all the gear out onto our fishing destination by foot instead of driving. That saved me the embarrassment of frantically flinging the truck door open, dumping myself into the ridiculously deep snow, and walking across the lake all by myself. I had already made a very loud, solemn promise to everyone in the truck that I WOULD NOT, by any means of coercion, DRIVE onto that ice. If I was going down into the numbing waters through the ice, I WOULD NOT DO IT in a truck. I was quite sure God had heard my panicked prayers when Kirk decided that we would park the trucks and walk.
I learned several things on our adventure out onto that frozen lake:
First, the exertion of hauling gear is morphed into Everest-like effort when the air is too cold to breathe. Tucking your face into your scarf helps until your breath condenses into ice on the scarf’s fibers. Then nothing helps.
Second, laughing keeps you warm. It shoots life-giving joy through your lungs and your body and your soul. And it keeps your definitions of the adventure from wandering into thoughts of impossibility.
Third, frozen lakes are the perfect place to make snow angels. Unbelievably perfect. But if you refuse to fall back and try to make your own, Rachel will shove you backwards to encourage the process. Ask Mattie.
Fourth, trust Kirk. He doesn’t just ice fish, he ice fishes IN STYLE. Gracious service. Lush accommodations. And a delightful dose of very dry humor to keep everyone sharp. If you MUST go ice fishing, go with Kirk.
Fifth, everything freezes on ice. That seems like a grand statement of the obvious, but it is really true. Beverages freeze. Sandwiches freeze. Feet freeze. Even the fishing hole you just augured freezes over and captures your fishing line in its incessant grip. THAT, I finally figured out, was what the spoon scoop was for. It wasn’t a soup ladle. It was an ice-crust scooper. Go figure.
Sixth, girls fish differently than guys. David, my husband and I were in one hut. Holly, Rachel, Jamie, Mattie, and Chad were in the other hut. Kirk, stationed in my hut, visited between both huts to make sure everyone was fine. My hut was the “guy hut.” My hut was quiet. Chad endured the “girl hut.” I am not really sure what transpired in the other hut, but it sure sounded like a hoot-n-holler hoe-down to me. I never heard a peep from Chad, however. The only real excitement in our hut was when my husband decided to dump some of the live minnows into our fishing hole to see if he could coax some big fish our direction. We all sat around that hole, watching the minnows swim in a circle, while my husband declared, “Be free, little guys! Be free!” Ice eventually starts to mess with a southerner’s sanity, apparently.
Frozen lakes are starkly beautiful places. The only noise is your noise. The only warmth is the richness of your fellowship and the dependability of your heaters. The only colors are the white of the snow, the azure-gray of the ice, and the deep, cold blue of the North Dakota sky. And when the sun goes down, the deepening strokes of orange, purple and pink are stunning beyond description. I loved it in such a deeply, satisfying way. As we were chatting in our hut, David wistfully said, “I could stay here all night.” I understood.
We didn’t catch any fish that day, but we captured a memory that will last a life-time. When I talk with my Tennessee friends about it, their minds can’t really get past the idea of that much ice and that much snow and that much cold. They gaze at me extremely doubtfully when I say that they would love it. I guess you just had to be there. With Kirk and Holly and the gang.
They would love it.
I am sure.
Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid
1 comment:
Delightful post! I'm enjoying reading about your North Dakota adventure!
Ice fishing sounds fun! And I think I would have refused to drive across the ice as well. Maybe it is just a Southern thing, but the thought of all that weight on ice just doesn't seem natural to me! But, then again, North Dakota does take ice to a completely different level!
I love your pictures at the top! Especially the one with the snow-covered lake. It looks so pretty!
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