The sun decided to shine today. For the last week the clouds have controlled the skies but not on this day. A few darkish clouds tried to sneak in from the north this afternoon, a couple of cottony ones from the south this evening; not once were shadows lost. As is often the case in late December the sunny day came with a price; cold air. Odd, isn't it, how winter sun and summer sun send the mercury in opposite directions? The temp was below zero this morning, stayed in the ones place above zero all day, then fell below zero again after dark. Not a bitter day - no, bitter sounds too harsh. "Crisp" is the word - the air was crisp all day.
Last Wednesday was the kick-off of Christmas festivities as school ended early and my daughters and I exchanged our gifts. Thursday and Friday brought Christmas Eve and Day, respectively, with two final events Saturday just to make sure nobody felt shorted on holiday hoopla. For me, however, the holiday fun started today when I took my first steps on frozen water. Normal folks get visions of sugar plums around the holidays; I get visions of Swedish Pimples and fat walleyes. "Tradition" is a word that gets thrown around a lot as Christmas approaches, and though I'm not very fond of most aspects of Christmas there is one tradition that I will forever link to the Christmas season - fishing for walleyes through the ice on "Secret" Lake.
The excitement I usually have on this first fishing outing was replaced by apprehension as I stood at the shoreline and studied the lake. The warm December has made ice conditions sketchy at best; seeing nobody on the ice didn't help my fears. There were, however, snowmobile tracks on the lake (and no gaping holes at the end of the tracks) so I calmly started tiptoeing my way towards the bar I wanted to fish. A half-mile later my tiptoe steps had become confident strides, the excitement was back, and I was fishing. The perch bit like crazy for two hours, and at sundown I caught my first two walleyes of the season while missing several others. At 6:00 I reeled in my lines and began packing up.....and began my favorite holiday tradition. The pre-fishing excitement and the act of fishing are both fun, but what I look forward to the most this time of year is the post-fishing trek from fish house to home house.
There is no stronger feeling of solitude than that of walking alone across frozen water in the dark. If I'm lucky it's a clear evening, and cold....really cold; this evening was both. On such an evening as the sun goes down the ice starts to expand and pop with thunderous booms that echo forever in the stillness, as though the lake is calling out to let it's users know that its ice is getting thicker. By the time my gear is packed up the half-mile walk back to shore is under the glow of starlight. If you've never looked at the night sky from a frozen lake then you've never seen the true night sky. Even the dimmest of stars have a bright glow in the winter air, making it hard to walk a straight line when the desire to keep looking up is so strong. But walk a straight line I do, my numb fingers begging me to pick up the pace and get to shore. With one final look out to where I've been and another look up to where I'll never be, I climb into the car and begin the second half of my journey home.
The drive back to the main highway is on a narrow road that curves just enough to keep me driving slow, giving me time to hear some of whatever Christmas CD I've popped in. The evergreens that line this lake road are coated with white as they stand behind the snowbanks along the road, giving the illusion of deep wilderness that is betrayed by the twinkling lights of the lakeside homes. The end of this road usually coincides with the first warmth from the car heater, so I pick up the pace on the highway as my stomach reminds me that supper is still twenty minutes away. The drive takes me through the town I call home and on the backroads to home, all the while carrying me through time as well as space. I consider all of the winters and all of the trips just like this one, how many of them have passed and how many of them might be left. How so much has changed over time but how each trip each day of each Christmastime seems so similar to all the others. It's soothing to know some of the best things in life never really change. Like home at Christmas.
I can see home from about a third of a mile away, after cresting an incline following a right angle left turn that I've unbelievably never slid off of (one of the few who haven't). From this distance the yard light, house lights, and Christmas lights combine to cast a dome-like glow over the entire farmstead. When I get close enough I can see the tree twinkling through the windows and the FoxNews blaring and the kids bouncing and the ladies cooking......and where else could I possibly want to be arriving at that moment? Opening the door of the house brings a blast of warmth, noise, and smells that together announce: "Hey man, it's Christmas. Welcome home."
Looking back on this day it's hard to pick out any part of it that could have been better. Sunshine on frosty trees, time with my daughters, time alone, fresh fish, clean air, good food, good company....the perfect day. Maybe Christmas does mean just a little bit more.
The excitement I usually have on this first fishing outing was replaced by apprehension as I stood at the shoreline and studied the lake. The warm December has made ice conditions sketchy at best; seeing nobody on the ice didn't help my fears. There were, however, snowmobile tracks on the lake (and no gaping holes at the end of the tracks) so I calmly started tiptoeing my way towards the bar I wanted to fish. A half-mile later my tiptoe steps had become confident strides, the excitement was back, and I was fishing. The perch bit like crazy for two hours, and at sundown I caught my first two walleyes of the season while missing several others. At 6:00 I reeled in my lines and began packing up.....and began my favorite holiday tradition. The pre-fishing excitement and the act of fishing are both fun, but what I look forward to the most this time of year is the post-fishing trek from fish house to home house.
There is no stronger feeling of solitude than that of walking alone across frozen water in the dark. If I'm lucky it's a clear evening, and cold....really cold; this evening was both. On such an evening as the sun goes down the ice starts to expand and pop with thunderous booms that echo forever in the stillness, as though the lake is calling out to let it's users know that its ice is getting thicker. By the time my gear is packed up the half-mile walk back to shore is under the glow of starlight. If you've never looked at the night sky from a frozen lake then you've never seen the true night sky. Even the dimmest of stars have a bright glow in the winter air, making it hard to walk a straight line when the desire to keep looking up is so strong. But walk a straight line I do, my numb fingers begging me to pick up the pace and get to shore. With one final look out to where I've been and another look up to where I'll never be, I climb into the car and begin the second half of my journey home.
The drive back to the main highway is on a narrow road that curves just enough to keep me driving slow, giving me time to hear some of whatever Christmas CD I've popped in. The evergreens that line this lake road are coated with white as they stand behind the snowbanks along the road, giving the illusion of deep wilderness that is betrayed by the twinkling lights of the lakeside homes. The end of this road usually coincides with the first warmth from the car heater, so I pick up the pace on the highway as my stomach reminds me that supper is still twenty minutes away. The drive takes me through the town I call home and on the backroads to home, all the while carrying me through time as well as space. I consider all of the winters and all of the trips just like this one, how many of them have passed and how many of them might be left. How so much has changed over time but how each trip each day of each Christmastime seems so similar to all the others. It's soothing to know some of the best things in life never really change. Like home at Christmas.
I can see home from about a third of a mile away, after cresting an incline following a right angle left turn that I've unbelievably never slid off of (one of the few who haven't). From this distance the yard light, house lights, and Christmas lights combine to cast a dome-like glow over the entire farmstead. When I get close enough I can see the tree twinkling through the windows and the FoxNews blaring and the kids bouncing and the ladies cooking......and where else could I possibly want to be arriving at that moment? Opening the door of the house brings a blast of warmth, noise, and smells that together announce: "Hey man, it's Christmas. Welcome home."
Looking back on this day it's hard to pick out any part of it that could have been better. Sunshine on frosty trees, time with my daughters, time alone, fresh fish, clean air, good food, good company....the perfect day. Maybe Christmas does mean just a little bit more.
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