Ice fishing with Tom

The hole in the ice is so small, less than a foot across, with cold black water welling up. How are we ever going to get a really big fish up through that little hole?

Despite the questions and the dark, it is nice, getting inside this little wooden box made of scrap lumber, away from the wind and the blowing snow. Perched in the middle of White bear Lake, the two of us maneuver around each other, filling the little ice-fishing shack. Tom lights matches. A propane heater, knee high with a flat steel plate on top, quickly warms the cold into stifling stuffiness tightness. Another match, and a Coleman lantern roars into life. It throws hot white light into all the corners,. This little wooden box that might hold two friends that feel like getting along for a little while.

There is no room for a real fishing pole. Tom brings out two little rods with tiny spinning reels and jigs so small they look like a joke. Smaller than a tie clip, the hooks are soon tipped with minnows and dunked in the hole.

Beer and peanuts were the majority of our payload, out here on this frozen January Minnesota lake. Forty below outside, wind shaking the shack. Seven bottles of beer went their way through our regimented law student brains. The crunch of peanut shells underfoot starts to irritate. More peanut shells. Soon, they fill the fishing hole, floating in the small circle of black water, shining brown before sagging and sinking. A circle of brown papery liners and shell shreds surround the water.

More beer. Despite the brown fog of alcohol, we really don't need to prove our manliness to the Norse gods.

Peeing into the hole, I hope we don't catch any fish.