Out in It: Castle Siege

I shouldered my way through the early morning crowd at Hi-Banks Resort on Fish Lake. A patron glanced my way, unimpressed, through a forest of celery sticks jutting from his Bloody Mary breakfast. I plopped $5 on the bar to access the lake out front. The bartender scooped up my cash and thanked me. No receipt, no dashboard tag, just an honor system and an agreement. They plow the road and I pay. I like that.

I shuffled my way back to the Suburban. The whole vehicle shook from our dog, Mogli, running from seat to seat, anxious to exit the vehicle and explore his surroundings. Joseph and David sat more patiently.

The ice road split immediately off the shoreline. A sharp left would bring us back towards Pontoon Bay - a sharp right would bring us toward our destination for the day: my nephew's current address. We worked our way across the expanse of the reservoir. Plowed offshoots offered easy access to shacks just off the main road and superhighways lead away to distant villages of ice shelters dotting the horizon. Staring off in the distance, the sunshine and whiteness of the snow-covered ice temporarily blinded us.

They say a man's home is his castle. For my nephew, Jaret, this assessment couldn't be more accurate. His Ice Castle, currently lowered to the ice just off Birch Island on Fish Lake, is his residence. It makes the rounds from Red Lake to Mille Lacs and other frozen destinations throughout the winter, settling on a chunk of terra firma from ice-out until freeze-up.

We piled out of the heated Suburban into the heated Ice Castle. Twenty-six feet long, the interior includes a bed, a table with booth seating, a kitchen, bathroom, stereo system, television, Xbox, and LED lighting, all run seamlessly off propane tanks and a whisper-quiet generator humming outside. Several open portals to the icy world below dot the floor of the Ice Castle, awaiting our offerings to the fish below. Surrounded by tongue-and-groove pine walls, I settle in, my ice fishing reality about to change forever.

As a kid, I remember being huddled over a hole, sitting on a 5-gallon bucket. No shelter, no protection from the wind and blinding snow. My high-tech rod was a glorified stick with two nails in it. Wrapped around the nails was a stretch of monofilament line, thick and curly. A third nail jutted from the underside of the stick, allowing me to slam it into the slush around the hole, a bit of design genius. A small piece of plastic foam with a toothpick shoved into it acted as my bobber. I set my bait depth by experience and feel, rarely having access to electronics. We killed time between bites by passing a football around, my brothers piledriving me into the unyielding ice if I dared shuffle too close.

Now I was sitting on a couch in my T-shirt tending two holes at my feet. David worked his own spot aggressively, trying to coax a bite from the depths. Jaret and Joseph first played a game of Yahtzee, then scanned YouTube on the big-screen TV, finally settling in for a little dirt track racing on the Xbox.

We chucked tennis balls for Mogli in the afternoon sun, ducking back inside if a chill caught up with us. Jaret broke out his drone for an impromptu flight. Flying high above the islands of Fish Lake, we could scan the throngs of fishermen. We dipped the drone above huddled groups, some noticing the oddity, most unaware of our eye in the sky.

When I was young, we would inevitably stumble into some fish, although cold and misery were our constant companions. The modern ice fishing experience is quite different. Effortlessly we all stayed warm and entertained. Hours zipped by. We may not have filled the Suburban with walleyes or crappies for the return ride home, but none of us were overly concerned.

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 our region has to offer.