Ice to See You, Fishies!

Through a unique blend of free-time and guilt (thank you family + friends for that) I've finally decided to update and reflect upon (to the best of my abilities) events from my Arctic adventure prior to my vacation in mid-January.

If you are among my expansive blog followers, a staggering almost double-digit amount, you would know that sometime in December I posted a couple of photos of an ice-fishing trip I took at some point in time in November (or December...so there is a reason why blogs are updated daily!). At that time, whichever it was, I was, or was pretending to be, too busy to enlighten you all with my literary musings to accompany them. So without further adieu, here's a brief blurb about said trip:

It was scheduled for a dark, cold and snowy Sunday in November/December (I'll have to look into this, it's getting old) and originally I wasn't planning on attending. However, as fate would have it, I awoke from my slumber by a light rapping on my door from Graham, reminding me that we would be departing for the hut shortly. After contemplating another lazy Sunday spent under covers with nothing to show for it but bed-head and grins of passers-by knowing I had slept all day, I decided to get geared up for the trip.

Like many Alert trips off the station we begun by loading ourselves into BVs and then made a stop at the maintenance building to pick up the generator and auger. After a stomach-churning half-hour or so riding in the bumpy-vehicle (my take on BV), we arrived at the ice-hut which had been dragged out to the frozen lake beforehand. Next, it was time for the generator to be hooked up and started so that light could be provided. As usual, with my brand new Arctic parka, I was more than eager to lend a hand.


After ensuring that the big dipper was, in fact, still among the other constellations present in the night sky, I decided to see how phase 2, auguring the ice holes, was going.

As I suspected from my previous experience auguring very tough clay-filled Ontario soil, the job was relatively easy going. Still, I thought it be best I record this endeavour rather than partake in the unlikely event that we propagated a crack in the ice, sending us to our icy cold graves in the depths of (something something) lake (more fact-checking obviously needs to be done!).

After the first couple of holes were drilled without even the slightest hint of danger, I decided my efforts would be better appropriated chucking snowballs at unsuspecting victims. When the bulky coats of my would be 'victims' proved too great a source of defence, I employed Graham to assist me in capturing dramatic action shots such as the one you see here.

Before long the holes were drilled and ice-hut warmed up via it's sophisticated carbon combustion chamber (aka wood stove).


With the combination of patrons' nicotine addictions and the wood stove, it wasn't long before I felt as though I was in a good old fashioned bar, pre-smoking-bylaw.

Once we were all settled next to our holes we begun stringing our lines, connecting our leaders, attaching make-shift weights and in some cases, connecting glow sticks (the legality of which is under review). The next step to was bait our hooks and the bait of choice...bacon?! After an hour or so of no success I began to question the mastermind behind the choice of bait but before I could make a smart ass comment Dan, one of the head mechanics on station, caught a squirmy little Arctic Char which Graham was able to brilliantly capture in motion.

As this fish, like the majority caught afterwards, was not even meaty enough for a single fish-stick it was released back into the lake shortly afterwards. Not long after the initial fish was caught a number of people were catching fish, including Graham's prize-winner.

The next catch is subject to debate. One of the transient military personnel left the hut to take a leak and while gone his line began to twitch. With cat-like reflexes I took his pole and reeled in what was seeming to be a much stronger fish than those we had been dealing with until that point. Sure enough, once I pulled him out of the water he was a decent size for back home, and a monster of a fish for the oft-fished lakes of Alert.

Just as I was pulling the fish out of the water the absent fisherman returned and was immediately informed I had stolen his catch. He was more than fine about it admitting that I had done all the work, however those in competition with me, Graham included, insisted an asterisk be put next to my tally of fish caught. The debate, however unjustified as it may be, was soon cut short as the removal of the hook from my fish was proving exceedingly difficult. Unfortunately it turned out the fish had swallowed the hook and so this would not be one which could be thrown back. Fortunately he was large enough to be cooked and you can rest assured that it did not go to waste.

As this is the first in a series of 'blogs from the past' to be updated, you can look forward to a lot more sooner rather than later.



Byron
The Young Man and the Lake