He sat, intent on the hole in the ice in front of him. If I payed close enough attention, I could see the slightest of movements from his hands, as he led his ice-fishing lure in a jig across the bottom. He was a puppet-master with his marionette performing a pantomime in the icy, shadowy depths of Lake 3.
So he sat, for fifteen minutes. So he sat for half an hour. The young boy, maybe 9 or 10, was far more patient than I would have been when I wore boots that size.
I was out on the ice facilitating a family ice fishing event - part of Manitoba's "On the Same Page" celebration. The book every Manitoban is encouraged to read this year is Juliana and the Medicine Fish, by Jake McDonald. Jake's an outdoorsy author, and Medicine Fish involves a fair bit of fishing - if a book-signing-and-ice-fishing event ever made sense, it made sense at FortWhyte last Sunday.
So, there I was, with my reflective vest and insulated rubber boots, opening the door (or, more accurately perhaps, aaugering holes in the ice) for people to wet a line and try ice fishing. I met experienced ice fishers, more than willing to share their stories - spinning stories seems to be what fishers do, while we wait for the big one to bite. I was honoured to introduce families to ice-fishing, families new to Manitoba, for whom winter and all it's attendant activities were novel.
There were hooks to be baited, stories to be swapped, lines to untangle. I relished every moment of it - especially the stories - of whiteouts on Lake Winnipeg, successes at Selkirk, the one that got away on Lac du Bonnet, the little catfish that made a little fisherman's day at the Forks. Two hours passed like the flash from a minnow's tail.
I did not get much chance to talk with the patient boy. Frankly, he was so focused, I didn't really want to interrupt his fishing.
As I stowed away supplies at the end of the program, it was he and I alone on the lake. We did talk a little, then - he told me his name was Jonathan, and of his close encounter with Largemouth Bass on Lake of the Woods. I told him about an adventure I'd had two winters ago, trying in vain to pull pickerel from the Bloodvein River. He told me he loved fishing; I'd guessed that, but he confirmed my assumption.
The conversation wound down. I had to head in and help pack up the indoor bit of the event.
Five minutes later, as I came out of the office, I was met by the boy and his family. Jonathan had a large, slimy streak across his mid-section, and a smile that threatened to push his ears backwards.
"I caught a fish! A big jack! This big!" he said, indicated the wet, dripping, smelly spot on his parka. His grandfather leaned in to show me a cel phone photo of the boy and a healthy-looking northern pike. The grandfather was smiling almost as widely as the grandson.
The young fisherman looked at me, and adopting the matter-of-fact tone fishers always use when telling a fish story, said,
"My first one ice fishing, you know. Not going to be my last." Jonathan sniffled. I thought he was perhaps on the verge of tears, overcome by the moment - he sniffed again. "All I had to do was wait and be patient, " he said, with another strong sniffle.
Maybe I was the one overcome by the moment. Maybe I was transferring my memories of ice fishing past, and my hopes for adventures future, into this moment, because the young, patient lad sniffed again and said, "My coat smells like fish. I think my Mom will have to wash it before school tomorrow."
-Barret
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