Icy proposal

I know exactly where I was 20 years ago, pretty darn close to the day. I was standing on the ice in front of our family cabin at Birch Lake, Grand Marais, auger in hand. Jamie was there also; she was being a good sport about braving the cold and chasing some rainbow trout. Little did she know the plump trout below our feet were not my main target.

I fired up the gas auger and pushed hard into its rotating blades. I quickly punched through eight inches as the auger broke through the underside of ice. The timing caught me off guard, and before I knew it, I followed the auger to the surface of the lake. My chin clanked against the hot motor as my entire body fell. A flash of light greeted me as I rolled onto my back; blood began to pool from my newly acquired fat lip. Jamie, as a caring nurse, broke into laughter.

I popped up and regained my competence as best I could. I drilled a couple more holes and set my game plan into action. I sent Jamie on a made-up errand; off she went in search of a chair or two from the shed up on shore, along the driveway and past the cabin. That would give me enough time.

As soon as she was out of sight, I grabbed the rod and reel I had tied up for the occasion. On the business end I had tied a hefty snap swivel. I had checked and rechecked the knot. The last thing I wanted was for the line to snap. Out of my pocket of my ice bibs came the ring box I had hidden away from Jamie. Today I would ask her to marry me.

I worked quickly and locked the ring onto the snap swivel and suspended it just below the surface with a slip-bobber. Long before she lugged two chairs back onto the ice, the trap was set. I had made a couple of calculations in picking my location. One, I had chosen a trout lake on purpose. I certainly wasn’t going to dangle a shiny gold and diamond ring in pike-infested water. Two, the same hole I had entered concussion-protocol over was in only a few feet of water, lessening the chance of a curious rainbow trout taking a swing at it.

Seconds ticked away like hours. We enjoyed an afternoon on the ice together, even sending a few hungry trout topside. I asked Jamie as casually as I could muster to check the bait on the rod that hadn’t gotten any hits.

She snapped back, “Well, you drilled the hole in like three feet, what did you expect?”

“Just check the bait,” I huffed.

The rest, as they say, is history. It happens to be our history, and it’s been an amazing run.

The trout circling below that day could not have comprehended what that flashy chunk of gold and diamond would represent. It would morph into four kids, in-laws, nieces, nephews and pets, an amazing journey full of an overabundance of ups vs. downs. Usually flashy chunks of gold in a trout’s world result only in sore lips, aching jaws and being yanked through a hole. Both are good, I guess.

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.