Pine Knot outdoors: With winter waning, finding solace in the spear shack

The bitter northeast wind relentlessly reshaped the landscape, shifting and sculpting dunes of snow across the expanse of the lake. I pulled hard against the heavy door separating me and my warmth from the tempest outside. This would be one of the last Sunday mornings of the spearing season, and I was settled in for the long haul.

My portable heater hummed on high over my left shoulder. Its orange glow radiated against the darkened walls of the spear shack. Stripped down to a flannel shirt, I sat contently above my window to the underworld.

The spear hole began as a perfectly cut, 3-foot by 4-foot rectangle in December. Rechiseled dozens of times, its borders crept in from all directions. Now resembling an oval, its diamond-cut edges reflected the light emanating from below. Taking into account its new borders, I figured the spear hole offered me roughly 10 square feet of access to my prey swimming below.

It’s daunting to contemplate the odds. The entire lake stretches for miles, but I’ve staked claim to 10 square feet to make something happen. Patience would be key. I lowered my favorite pike decoy 5 feet into the green water. The water clarity has diminished greatly since the beginning of the season, but the bright pink decoy contrasts against the muted browns of long-dead weeds littering the bottom of the lake.

My optimism waned as minutes turned to hours without spotting movement. Outside, the wind continued to howl, shaking the walls of the shack, sending ripples to disturb the edges of my portal. The time above a spear hole reminds me of days spent in the deer stand. Countless hours of nothingness punctuated by fierce moments of action and adrenaline. You can call a deer, and you can lure a pike, but action is never guaranteed.

Willie Nelson sang from the shelf just off my left ear. The first pike of the day must have had an affinity for the classics because he swam in mesmerized by “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” Seldom does a pike float in offering a perfect shot, but after hours of waiting, there he was, nosed up to the decoy. Bigger than most, his shoulders showed the thickness of his age. Scars streaked the side of his head, perhaps from misguided spears of winters past? The spear sitting atop my boot would not move. Slowly he nudged the decoy, startled at its composition of metal and wood. Unimpressed, with a flick of his tail he exited stage left. I was surprised at my decision to let him swim off.

The heater hummed, the wind howled, and Willie sang. Tucked away from the world outside, I contemplated my last moments in the spear shack for the season. It wasn’t until the moment the pike exited my 10-square-foot sphere of influence, I realized that a little respite was my trophy for the day.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet and award-winning columnist for the Pine Knot News. He began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures the region has to offer.