The Ice Fishermen, Part 1

This time of year, when the sun is just beginning to brush color against the eastern horizon, the ice fishermen come crawling across the flat expanse of lake ice below my house.  A few arrive on cross country skis, but most come skittering on four-wheelers.

They are like gypsies, the ice fishermen.  Many come in small caravans, towing sleds, trailers, and collapsible ice houses behind their machines.  By the event of full light, temporary camps appear on the snow-covered lake.  The accelerated drone of ice augers penetrating the sixteen inches of ice fills the air.  Fishermen gather into clusters around holes or cycle in and out of fully assembled ice houses.  Sometimes, dogs or small children wander around the edges of the camps.

On calm days, if I step outside my back door, I can hear the fishermen talking from a distance of a half-mile.  I might hear the celebratory calls when a fish is pulled up through the ice.

Throughout the day, fishermen come and go, roving the ice for a while, settling, roving again.  Each solitary figure or group on a time-schedule different from the next.  By the end of the day, long before the sun touches the Rocky Mountains, most fishermen have crawled back into the mountainous landscape again.  The ice once again becomes an empty expanse of white.

Posted is a photograph I took of the lake just now.  Only a few fishermen are on the ice at this early hour.  They are but spots on the lower right hand side.  The camps are yet on their way.

--Mitchell Hegman