I was deep in preparation, both mental and physical, when I realized that I did not own a pair of snowpants. Not only did I currently not possess snowpants, but as I thought back to my youth, I realized that I probably haven’t owned a pair of snowpants since I was 12. Maybe 11. If I was to go ice fishing for the first time in as many as 15 years, I should probably be wearing snowpants. A stop at the snowpant store and I was set, ready to spend a few hours in the great outdoors on a temperature appropriate February afternoon. The goal last Sunday was Lake Trout, and as I walked out onto the ice with a friend who also moonlights as a professional fisherman (see photo), my confidence was high. With Thomas in tow, we walked onto the ice for a date with our scaly destiny.
The confident walk rapidly descended into a weary slug as we traipsed through shin and knee high snow for many miles (no) before we paused to drill our first hole. We were far off the Western tip of Conference Point, so far that the lightly falling snow hazed over the shorelines and left us alone in a world of our own choosing. If the event had ended with the I Shouldn’t Be Alive producers calling me, I would not have been surprised. We were in the middle of the lake, in the middle of winter, with 105′ of ice water beneath us. The first hole was drilled, and then another, and another, and we simultaneously fed our crunchy line through the frozen eyes of our stout little fishing rods. I had survived the harrowing trek, we had drilled holes, we had scooped ice, and now we were about to catch fish. Loads of them.
Or not. We fished for hours that seemed like days, and we caught nothing. Thomas begged, then cried for the warmth of my parents home. His feet froze and his eyes dripped slushy tears as he stretched out prostrate in the snow as if resigned to his premature fate. We jigged teasingly, we jigged vigorously, we let our jigs hover in the dark still of Geneva, and nothing bit. I assume those fish with the big teeth and dangling light, like the one in the Nemo movie, swam by to closer inspect our metal, hook ladened offerings, but the object of our desire wasn’t dangly light fish- it was the mighty Lake Trout. We would have settled for any species of trout that call Geneva home, including Brown and Rainbow varieties, and after an hour or two of mindless jigging I would have been delighted to hook a small cisco like the ones that filled my youthful winters. Had my friend up there not sent me multiple photos of him smiling while straining under the weight of behemoth Geneva Lake Trout, I wouldn’t have set my expectations so high. (Turn the volume off if you don’t want the NSFW reaction to the monster fish they catch- or fast forward to 4:20 for the photos.)
It’s a unique experience to stand in the middle of a lake on a thin barrier of ice. It’s also terrifying to think about falling through that thin barrier and then swimming madly while you try in vain to find the hole you fell through. Those fears aside, the afternoon spent on the ice, taking in the sweeping views of a snow covered shoreline painted all black and white is a pleasant way to spend a winter afternoon. While the throngs marched through Lake Geneva, viewing snow sculptures and sipping coffee, I was surrounded by the soundless still of a resting lake. I feel bad for those who only know Lake Geneva as a tourist destination, where fudge and ice cream are consumed on city benches, while traffic clogs the downtown roads that would otherwise wax idyllic. The Lake Geneva I know has little to do with downtown, and everything to do with a quiet afternoon spent on the lake, even if it happens to be frozen.
If I have time this weekend, I might venture out onto the ice again. I will drill holes in an attempt to catch a fish like the one those guys in that video up there caught last winter on Geneva. If you want to get out of town, and embrace the wilderness that is a frozen Geneva Lake, I have just one word of advice. Buy some snowpants first. See you at the temporarily frozen lake.