Walk of shame

I stood swaying back and forth in the parking lot of PJ’s Little Store, half asleep on my feet, after a particularly long overnight shift. It was early December, and my brother Bruce was slated to pick me up. I wasn’t going to let a little sleep deprivation get in the way of our plans.

We headed south past Moose Lake. Our mission: chuck the spear at a few pike. We parked the truck along a gravel road near the water’s edge. Frozen cattails, suspended in winter’s grip, welcomed our arrival. Without a wheeler or a snow machine we were forced to trudge across the frozen expanse in search of our spear shack; the wind and drifting snow obscured its location on the opposite shoreline.

My brother took the lead. I fell into mindless repetition, watching his boots break the snow in front of me. I shuffled closely behind, weighted down by the sled full of gear trailing us, confident he knew the way. We arrived with enthusiasm, and busted into an unspoken routine. Bruce handed me the chisel and nodded towards the shack. Clearly, I was in charge of opening the spear hole. The shack had been used recently, and the chiseling should be light work. Bruce busied himself arranging our other equipment: a heater, propane tanks, and several decoys. The spear and its rope had tangled themselves unmercifully around everything else in the sled. I entered the darkhouse, chisel in hand, my mind and body locked into the mission; we would be shoulder to shoulder, staring into the abyss below in no time.

A spear hole can be rediscovered in many degrees of disregard. Sometimes, if the weather has remained warm, a light skim of ice can be quickly broken up and scooped out. Other times the entire hole has refrozen and 20 minutes of hard labor is your sentence. The hole I encountered was not skim, but not completely frozen in: five minutes of sweat equity, tops. I lifted the weight of the chisel high above my head and thrust it towards the ice below. In one motion the chisel slid through my hands, cut through the ice like molten lava, and settled into its final resting place 8 feet below my feet, buried forever in the mud and the muck. I stared unblinkingly at the perfect round hole I had launched our chisel through.

We now had one small hole in the ice, and no chisel. I stood dumbfounded, surveying the situation. The hole was a perfect orb, a chisel’s width wide. It revealed the cold hard truth. I had punched through 3-4 inches of clear ice. No way were we busting this ice with our boots, or any other tool at our disposal.

I slowly opened the shack door as the sunlight raced in. Bruce did not have to enter the shack: he knew by the look on my face. “What did you do?” he barked. After a half-hour drive and a mile-walk carrying our gear across the ice, it was clear there would be no spearing this day. The walk in, full of anticipation, wasn’t all that bad, but the walk of shame back to the truck took forever.

That morning sticks with me, even though it’s been 20-plus years. Bruce and I, along with our kids, have rediscovered spearing and have spent many weekends chucking spears together.

I’ve picked up a few tips and tricks this time around. For example, did you know most ice chisels have a spot to attach a rope? Evidently, it’s meant to fasten around your wrist.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, educator and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures available in our region.