As someone who grew up in Florida and Texas, desperate to live anywhere other than the South, only to somehow end up in Louisiana for college, I can't say I ever imagined I would end up living in Wyoming.
I also can't say I expected to like it as much as I do.
Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I'm not the first Davis to make the move out here. My uncle retired from his banking job in Seattle to become a coal miner in northeastern Wyoming over ten years ago, and I think it's safe to say he doesn't regret it at all.
I knew I would like living closer to mountains. The plethora of outdoor activities. That I would potentially find a winter sport to love (we're working on that one, since they all require so much equipment). But I wasn't sure about the small town feel of Laramie. The short, cold winter days. Or some of the more...well, let's be honest, redneck-y activities.
According to my uncle, ice fishing is about as redneck as you can get. And yet, a couple of weeks ago, while planning to drive up and visit him, I asked if he would take us ice fishing.
My partner and I had been blown away by the way lakes freeze over completely during the winter. When little tents started popping up on the ice, we knew people were inside, sitting next to a hole, trying to catch some fish. We were curious. We wanted to drill the holes, to see how thick the ice was, to find out what kind of fish you can catch in the dead of winter.
The curiosity only somewhat explains my sudden, very genuine desire to experience ice fishing. I'd only been fishing a couple of times in my life and I never caught anything besides tree branches and my grandpa's shirt. I had no reason to think I would like fishing, as I mostly remembered being bored on those rare occasions. And when you're fishing through a hole in the ice, you don't even get to cast the line!
And yet...it just sounded like fun.
So we drove to Gillette.
At my uncle's house, we started by packing two sleds with everything we would need: the shelter, the drill (brand-new, my uncle was very excited to use it), gloves, traction devices, bait, fishing rods, chairs, and, of course, a cooler full of snacks and alcohol. We loaded it all into the car and drove about an hour west to a small artificial lake near Buffalo, Wyoming. As we drove up to the lake, we counted over 15 colorful little tents scattered around the lake, and even more people without shelters. The day was perfect, right around freezing, blue skies and, miracle of miracles in this state: NO WIND. We unloaded the sleds, stepped out on to the ice, and set out for an unoccupied section of the lake, where my uncle knew we would find a little bit of a current underneath.
Walking out onto the ice was a very surreal feeling. There was just enough snow dusted on top that we didn't need the traction devices to keep from slipping, yet the sleds we dragged behind us moved with little resistance. As we walked farther from the shore, I eventually relaxed, no longer watching every step, waiting for a crack or a crunch. My feet became confident that there was a solid foot of ice underneath, holding us and everyone else out there up without a problem.
When we reach the pre-ordained spot, my uncle fired up his new drill with a huge grin on his face, like a kid with a brand new toy. He placed it on the ice, holding it up by two handles on either side, and pushed down. At first - nothing seem to happen as the drill spun, but gradually, gradually, it pushed down through the ice, until suddenly, it dropped, having reached the other side. Around the perfectly circular hole in the ice, ice shavings piled up, looking like the caldera of a cone-shaped volcano.
My uncle handed the drill to my partner, warning him to be prepared for the moment when it dropped through to the other side, and the two of them made short work of our four fishing holes, placed in a neat square a couple meters apart.
Holes made, my uncle prepared our lines, stabbed some mealworms for us, and set us all to fishing. We sat in fold-up chairs, leaning over our holes, letting the wait of the lure unspool the line until it stopped, presumably at the bottom of the lake. We then gently turned the reel a couple of times to bring it up in the water column, and waited.
In no time at all, we started getting nibbles, little taps on the end of the line that made the ends of our short, flexible rods twitch. Thus began an exercise in patience. As my uncle explained, if the fish was big enough, you wanted to wait until he had the chance to get the hook caught in his mouth. If the fish was small, they would have trouble getting all of the bait in their mouth, possibly eating all of it off your hook without getting caught. So how do you know when to reel in?
Throughout the course of the day, I would learn that if, at that spot, I stopped getting nibbles after a couple of minute, my bait had been stolen. If I had a chunky fish on the line, I would get more than just a twitch.
But I didn't know this until five hours later.
That first fish was a complete surprise.
My uncle made me kiss it!
For those who, like me, have never caught a fish before, you have to kiss your first fish of the day.
Call it beginner's luck, but not only was I the first to pull a fish out of the lake that day, I proceeded to pull out nine more throughout the course of the day. My uncle and my partner together caught 15, and my aunt, happier to be walking around than paying close attention to her rod, caught none, though she wasn't too concerned about it.
Apparently, the lake we were at is so full of perch that the bag limit (10 per person) is set deliberately high. The fish stay relative small (most of what we caught were about the length of my hand) because there are so many in the lake, they eat each other out of house and home,
The act of ice-fishing is surprisingly enjoyable, especially on a day as nice as the one we were gifted. With the right layers, no wind, and a clear sky, you get to sit outside, drinking beer, spending time with loved ones, and trying to imagine what's going on at the end of your line, down in the dark water. We barely even spoke most of the afternoon, we were so intent on getting our lures to just the right height in the water, detecting the slightest twitch on our poles. The ice makes weird sounds as it shifts and settles; great big booms that feel like sitting in front of the bass drum in a concert band and eerily reminded me of something large knocking from beneath the surface, asking to come out. It was almost like meditation; my concentration was completely zeroed in on the hole in front of me and I don't think I thought about anything else the entire day. Having such a successful first-day-ever of fishing probably biased me towards enjoying it more (I can't imagine a day with no fish would have been quite as fun).
That said, the idea of fishing in general is still not my favorite thing. Watching the fish flop around on the ice after we caught them was hard and I couldn't help but be aware, as I insisted that my uncle teach me to filet them, that they were once living creatures that I had caught for fun and was only going to consume a part of. I'm not sure catch-and-release is much better, but Luis and I are both of the opinion that unless we can catch something substantially bigger, that's what we'll do in the future.
That said though, I am now the owner of a fly-fishing rod (thanks to? you guessed it, my uncle). Our belated Christmas gifts from him and my aunt were two-fly fishing rods and reels, plus a handful of (I think) Coachman flies. I am kind of excited to learn how to do it - ever since reading The Feather Thief by Kirk Wallace Johnson I've been intrigued. I also never realize just how much flies look like actual, living flies. The descriptions in the Feather Thief did not do that part justice. Who knows if it'll become a regular past-time (the fish might be big enough to be worth it) but hey - fishing is a survival skill, right?
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