by Chris Quaal Vinson
Our family had an ice fishing house many years ago. I’m giving a lot of credit here by using the word “house”. It was actually a little tar paper shack, big enough to fit a couple of folding camp stools and a small wood-burning stove which surrounded a hole in the floor, which surrounded a hole drilled into the ice. Even as a kid, I loved to fish, but I loved to drive the snowmobile more, and would go like the wind, staying close to shore and avoiding the spot where the creek met the lake. That spot never quite froze all the way over. I stayed close to shore not because I was told to, but because being on a frozen lake has always given me the heebie-jeebies. In case you didn’t know, even solidly frozen ice on a lake can creak and groan like an old Farm Woman attempting to get out of bed on a cold winter’s morning. My fears also stem from the time that a family friend went ice fishing and the car broke through the ice. Knowing that his car was going down, he tossed his son through the window to safety. Thankfully, all of them survived, but I often wondered if the son, who became one of my best childhood friends, fueled those fears with stories of the adventure. He certainly had earned the bragging rights!The content you are trying to access is only available to members. Sorry.