Ice-Fishing Anecdote

When I was about 13 years old, I was invited to go ice fishing on Minnesota’s Madison Lake (near Mankato) with my buddy, Greg, and his father. It was one of those frosty winter days in late February or early March. After driving to the lake, we hooked up the icehouse to the snowmobile’s tow bar and grabbed our poles and fishing gear. Lots of other icehouses dotted the lake, but Greg’s dad was proud of the fact that his house had no floor and was therefore highly portable and able to be easily moved to where the fish were biting.

Anyway, after we had towed the house to our chosen spot on the frozen lake, Greg’s dad got off the snowmobile and went inside the house to mark the area of the ice where he wanted to drill the holes. The plan was to then move the house to drill the holes, and later replace it back over the same location. Greg and I waited for his father impatiently on the snowmobile, blipping the throttle incessantly, like a drag racer waiting for the green light. After a few minutes had passed, Greg and I assumed his father had left the house, so Greg opened up the throttle and we took off like a bat out of hell! The wind and snow were painfully hitting our faces as we broke drifts and blindly raced forward.

After zipping along for about 100-200 yards, I tapped Greg on his shoulder and asked him if he remembered seeing his father. Uh—no!

We came to a screeching halt, glanced back at the fish house we’d been towing, and saw Greg’s dad stagger out of it, swearing, with his face a bright beet-red color. At the time, Greg and I took off and disappeared for a few hours because we were too scared to face him. But today, it’s still amusing to try to picture his father running furiously inside the moving icehouse, trying to keep pace, unbeknownst to us.