Mighty Clitherall Lake

My introduction to ice fishing began at a young age when my grandpa would take my siblings and me ice fishing on Clitherall Lake in west central Minnesota. Oftentimes he would take some combination of the three of us, probably because a 3, 5, and 7- year-old were a handful for the retired farmer who was really looking for a little peace and quiet.

For me, it was more about the adventure and being with my grandpa than the actual fishing. I liked slipping down the steep, icy hill to the lake and following the well-compacted snow path to the simple, lone house. I liked carrying my own jiggle stick, and maybe something else, like the flashlight. I still remember the padlock combination on the icehouse — 410 — and the feeling that I must be doing something special if it required a secret code to get in.

The holes in my grandpa’s house were large, probably 3 feet by 3 feet, which didn’t leave much floor space. Us kids were small. Because of that, my grandpa would tie us to the red vinyl chair, (the kind that were extremely slick when occupied by someone in a nylon snowsuit) to ensure we wouldn’t slip down the hole if we were lucky enough to land a lunker. As we got older, we were allowed to be tied more loosely, but nonetheless, strapped firmly to the chair. Grandpa didn’t mind how many times we asked to get up to look at the minnows outside or grab a snack from the lunch that Grandma had packed. He’d willingly untie us and then diligently re-secure his charges when we returned.

One day I did land a lunker. And I was tied to the chair. I can’t remember if I had a jiggle stick or if I was enjoying the more passive way of fishing with the line attached to the wall on a reel. I do remember that my bobber went down, way down, in the crystalline water of Clitherall Lake, and I could see a daunting creature fearlessly swimming in the opposite direction. I lunged for my line, but the I-in. rope wound tightly around my 5-year-old midsection limited my mobility. My grandpa saw my predicament, and the prize fish on my line, and leaped into action. Ice scoops and pliers and knives and candles went flying as he fought with the creature from Loch du Clitherall. I think I maybe learned “patience” that day as I watched him systemati-cally bring in the fish. In one fluid move, my grandpa threw open the fish-house door and tossed the great Northern pike onto the frozen lake.

On that day, New Year’s Day 1975, my little sister, older brother, parents, and grandma stayed back at my grandparents’ house to enjoy more traditional holiday pursuits. Needless to say, no one could believe that this young girl had caught a fish as big as she.