Mysteries of Ice Fishing

As a rule, a city person who doesn’t make his living from fishing spends a lot more money on a fishing trip than he earns back in fish. But this isn’t such a big deal, is it?

He who decides to go ice fishing deprives himself of the urban pleasures of Friday nights — evening drinks, going out on the town and what not. But he makes the sacrifice without the slightest pang of regret. He knows the value of this fatal passion, “my ice fishing,” with its accompanying auto breakdowns, snow strandings, foul weather and road jitters. And he will never give it all up for the dubious pleasures of the City.

He knows that his job is only something to spend (kill) time between fishing trips.

He knows how long He has worked to get out There.

He knows why He is going There.

And quite often He even knows that He will not bring any Fish back from There. Because He is not going There simply to get Fish.

Leaving the city in darkness, stopping to pick up your doubles—other fishermen—you feel like you are approaching your true Self.

You only take along the essentials, which depend on the length of your trip. This junk can be anything you like, as long as it is useful to you and does not distract anyone. From fishing.

Because one always goes fishing with the hope of healing. And even when you come back home with your head on straight, you start feeling an irresistible craving for this so-called “hobby.”

No matter how long he fishes, every fisherman’s dream to catch the biggest fish ever never dies.

It is impossible to compare this world with any other; it is a world in which you are not simply resting or working.

What is this ice fishing?

Why would a person, who can buy any fish in a store go fishing?

Of course, there is no explanation.

Business leaders, managers, stock market experts and even common Russian taxpayers will confirm this after returning from an ice fishing trip. Conversing with their beloved wives and children.

Venturing out onto the ice for the first time, especially if it is crackling ominously under your feet, you do not think about fishing, but about work, children, debts and that you really do not want to die so young and in quite this manner …

But you do not hurry. Over there, to the right, a guy came out of the woods, apparently in a hurry. He barged out onto the ice and sunk in icy water up to his waist and had to rush back to the car to get warm. For him, the adventure is over for today.

After a while, you stop thinking about work, distracted by nature and the tempo of trudging across the ice – by the crackling sounds and the risk of falling into a “mine” left behind after fishing nets were removed. You think about family.

And then, at the point when you take control of yourself, you pass beyond the border of hysteria and tramp onward across the ice in a state of absolute nonchalance, occasionally pausing to decide in which direction to continue.

Is there still far to go?

Well, there is no need to go anywhere, really. And yet we must keep walking, and with revulsion stomp some more, in some fantastic way connecting our progress across the ice, enjoying the constant change of setting.

Let’s just get a little closer to those guys over there, then we’ll decide what to fish for today.

Of course, where there are people, that is where you will find the fish. But not always.

We don’t need fish. We just need some sign of their presence.

We’ll drill a bit, sit a while, fish, have some tea and then ...

Closer to the shore, or to the island? This also does not matter, but one does have to answer the question convincingly ... we do need to talk about something once in a while.

Mikhalych has a nibble. That’s not bad, since he is the one driving. Something’s on my line too, but I am too lazy to pull it in.

You just sit there, staring idly into the hole, watching the line move about.

Have a snack while there is still daylight and then make your way back to the car. Change your clothes and then it’s back to the city by the village backroad, run smooth by the local fishermen.

Your body recovers from the stinging northern wind as you watch other fishermen out the car window, speculating what they are catching. You watch some old men cross the ice atop a strange, three-wheeled device, with a motor from a chainsaw or moped, in padded jackets and old — perhaps tank drivers’ or a pilots’— helmets. You smile quietly, knowing exactly what connects you to these absolute strangers.  RL