Winter’s Northern Bite

Waiting for the ice to form in the Northwoods became an obsession— monitoring forecasted highs and lows, devouring ice reports and stalking northern Wisconsin fishing blogs. Who does this? Certainly not me; except that it was me. Bothered by an insatiable curiosity driving me deeper and deeper into the expansive, seemingly machismo world of ice fishing, I needed to know who was catching what and where. I was propelled by a nagging desire and eagerness to hit the ice, a bizarre cultural baptism of sorts for this relative newcomer-to-Wisconsin, Norwegian half-breed.

Before we go much further, I have one admittance. Prior to covering this story, I had never ice fished, despite growing up in northern climes with an avid ice fisherman father. This scene was a whole new can of worms for me—literally, wax worms, to be nerdly specific. Weird, two-inch, yellowish-white, grub-like worms used as bait by ice fishers looking to entice hungry panfish like bluegill, crappie and perch. Oh, the things you learn with a new obsession.

An experienced fisher, I grew up casting line with my father and brother. From the time I could make a solid cast, my family regularly tackled a number of small lakes dotting the western Great Plains and Rocky Mountains. We further challenged our skills in the high elevation streams that cut through the West’s grand mountain chains. As a teen, my father taught me the art of fly fishing the softer streams of the Black Hills and later, the faster currents of the Big Horn Mountains and Grand Tetons.

Fishing was my family’s “thing,” you could say, and to this day I relish the memories of those quiet moments in-stream, the faint hiss and dance of the fly line rounding back then forward again, watching my father’s skill and determination. Going back to camp with dinner was quite simply an extra perk, not the motivation. Beauty, peace and skill aside, standing hip-deep in near freezing, fast-flowing water, flailing with a knotted line, cursing and floundering over slicker-than-slim stream bottom rocks, hoping to whomever or whatever it is you pray to that you don’t misjudge the next step and drop neck-deep into a hidden pool, filling your waders with icy-cold water and losing your favorite Yellow Humpy fly. It all comes down to those father-daughter memories that will forever stay with me. (And thank goodness he was there to pull me out.)

There was one fishing experience I had yet to share with my father. Ice fishing never appealed to me as a teen, and although he used his best persuasive and negotiating skills, I never took him up on the offer to “hit the ice.” After high school I escaped the nest, went to college, married, and over the past ten or so years I have not one fishing memory with my father.

Until now.

In the depth of winter, the ice is forming and together we will take on Wisconsin’s Northwoods near the fishing mecca of the Hayward Lakes Region.

Late February: The ice is thick and the “bite” is on as we journey north to the Grand Pines Resort on Round Lake. Our cozy log cabin sits just feet from the ice-covered waters, and the woodburning fireplace and hand-quilted blankets keep us warm. We sleep soundly through the night, resting on visions of ice fishing fortune.

We are up sharp at five o’clock in the morning and greeted by a very stiff 23 degrees—a heat wave to some Northerners, but I swear my skin is thinner than these cold-hardy folk. The sun remains hidden under the blanket of the horizon. The morning feels slow to come on, as if it’s hiding from the steady Nor’easter wind gusting over 25 miles per hour, gifting icy needle-like stings to the face or any other unshielded flesh. Any right-minded person would go back to the warmth and cover of one’s bed. But not I, and certainly not my father. We’ve waited all winter for this opportunity to share in one of Wisconsin’s oldest outdoor traditions. The promise of a freshcaught shore lunch is just the thing to motivate this early riser.

Wisconsin’s Northwoods are stunning in the height of winter. Coniferous forests with mosses and lichen in greens of every shade punctuated by the grays and browns of deciduous skeletal forms contrast brightly with winter’s snowy white blanket adorning forest floor and every tree bough. The landscape is quite different than my southwest Wisconsin home, a welcome change only four hours from my front door.

In a landscape with more than 50,000 acres of glacial lakes and rivers, including 2,000 miles of streams, 607 lakes and more than 400 spring-fed ponds, we’ve placed ourselves in the good hands of one of Wisconsin’s most respected and wellknown fishing guides, Mike Best. (With a last name like “Best,” it wasn’t hard to choose which guide would lead us out on the ice.) While ice fishing certainly does not require a professional guide service, I cannot communicate enough the incredible knowledge, patience, preparedness and skill Mike brought to the experience. Plus, he’s a super nice guy with a sharp sense of humor and an undeniable passion for catching fish.

We meet Best and his fishing partner, ten-year-old daughter Paige, north of Hayward in the small town of Cable, and after picking up a second guide, Cole Rabska, we are led to a remote, undisclosed lake. (The identity of said lake was only shared upon swearing to the ice fishing gods to keep it under the highest of secrecy. This means I can’t share it here, sorry.) Clearly, this is serious business. Like hundreds of lakes in the area, this one is small to medium in size and appears to be covered by two feet of undisturbed snow topped with a hard layer of wind-induced ice.

Long underwear—check. Insulated boots—check. Insulated Carhartt overalls—check. Wool hat, gloves and we’re ready to roll, playing catch-up to our guides who are already nearly half-way across the lake. We trudge after them, totally frozen and breathless by the time we arrive at the “drop spot,” which happens to be right on top of an underwater 35- to 45-foot rocky rise in the middle of the lake. A spot where six-pound, 21-inch smallmouth bass are known to hang out under the ice at this time of year. We move quickly under Best’s orders, hurrying to get ready for the 8:00 a.m. bite that will last roughly 30 minutes—yes, it’s that precise. Best, with much difficulty given the depth of snow and ice, fires up the ice auger and drills six holes through ice, snow and another 18 to 24 inches of solid lake ice. Six lines are prepared with Blue Rapala jigs and we wait for the green light from Best. The preferred strategy is for all lines to go in at exactly the same moment to surprise and entice the fish to bite.

Best yells “Go!” and we drop our lines. The whole experience consists of 30 solid minutes of heightened anxiety and excitement. And then, nothing. Not one bite. We pack it up and haul our disappointed selves back to the truck. I can’t help thinking how, with no fish, our planned shore lunch is going to prove a little difficult. Best better have a backup plan.

After a brief warm-up, we head over to meet Best, his daughter and Rabska, who are in the process of preparing one of the best fresh fish plates I’ve yet to experience, right on the shore of Little Round Lake. Best does, in fact, have a backup plan, which includes yesterday’s fresh catch of bluegill and crappie. A picnic table serves as a makeshift kitchen, and tenyear- old Paige proves to be a seasoned shore lunch chef chopping potatoes, onions and breading the fish. All of the food is cooked in cast iron over a red-hot coal fire. We add a little bacon to the potatoes, wait for the baked beans to start steaming, pop open a couple of New Glarus brews and dig in. Crisp, full-flavor fish fork-stacked with onion-potato-bacon goodness, each bite made better with the rich sauce of baked beans. This is the kind of meal that leaves me utterly full, filled with true, unadulterated Northwoods happiness. The sun softens the cold wind and our moods lighten, swapping fishing stories and making new friends just as a shared meal is designed to do.

Our day on the ice is scheduled around the bite, which to our pleasure awards us a nice afternoon siesta, time to lazily enjoy the lake views, wood fire and locally-authored reads found in our cabin. The February late afternoon bite is active during the 4:30 to 5:30 hour and reports from the ice indicate we are in for some real action. We bundle up again and caravan out to Nelson Lake, six short miles north of Hayward. At 2,503 acres, this lake is much bigger than the first, and the only way to reasonably get ourselves and our gear out to another secret, strategic location is to drive Best and Rabska’s four-by-fours. Trucks on ice are not something I am entirely comfortable with, but I woman-up and buckle up. More like a thrill ride, one has to drive relatively fast to plow through multiple feet of snow-covered ice and not get stuck—the fate of several fishers we pass on our way across the lake.

White-knuckled, we arrive safe and unstuck. Best and Rabska drill another six holes and set up the ice shanty and heater, preparing for much colder temps when the sun falls below the horizon around five o’clock p.m. Our lines are readied with either wax worms or a commonly used teardrop jig head. Two portable, electronic sonar depth and fish finders are placed on the ice and fired up. While not necessary in order to catch your day’s limit, these nifty pieces of equipment help ensure you’re at least in the neighborhood of a school of fish. With baited hooks we wait for the signal from Best. I love the anxious excitement building in my stomach. It brings a whole new energetic dimension to fishing. Even our guides, who do this for a living, are smiling ear-to-ear, counting the seconds before finally yelling “Drop the line!”

Hands hold steady on the 28-inch rod waiting for the slightest bump or dip of the tip, and bumps and dips there are many. We work into an ice fishing fury that results in 66 bluegill and crappie. Yes, that’s right, approximately one plus fish per minute. Total fish madness.

I get it now. You could say I’m hooked (pun intended). My father’s eyes and face hold focused determination and pure joy as he pulls those fish from the hook and sets the line again (and again, and again) as fast as his cold, heavily gloved fingers can work. The icy wind on my face and nearly frozen limbs have nothing on the fun I am fully experiencing. I have never in all my years of fishing caught so many in such a short period of time. With our freezer soon to be stocked, our family will enjoy months of classic Wisconsin fish-fries at home.

Drained, we caravan back to the cabin. On the way, Rabska tells us about another ice fishing method enjoyed by the more adventure seeking Northwoods fisher—bobbing—where a Lake Superior fisher ventures out from shore to the very end of an ice shelf and drops line, literally bobbing on the shelf as the waves rise and fall, waiting for a large lake trout to come along and take the hook. Seriously, Wisconsin? I normally encourage taking things to the next level, but in this case, I think I’ll keep to the non-life threatening, family friendly practice of ice fishing.

Fishing the ice-covered lakes, rivers and streams of Wisconsin is a cultural tradition that, up until now, I’ve largely overlooked. I tend to be a bit of a winter hermit, so standing on the ice in the middle of nowhere was never at the top of my “to-do” list. But Best and his crew at Grand Pines showed me the light and gave me one of the most memorable fishing experiences with my father.

For More Information:

Grand Pines Resort on Round Lake
Mike Best, Resort Manager
9971N Grand Pines Lane
Hayward, WI 54843
Phone: 715-462-4006
loons@grandpines.com
www.grandpines.com

Mike Best Fishing Guide Service
43260 Randysek Road
Cable, WI 54821
Phone: 715-558-4014
mikebestguiding@gmail.com
www.mikebestguiding.com