Common sense and intuition work if you pay attention

Really solid ice is needed to support angler and shanty

When it comes to the old cliche like "treading water," it means much the same as "spinning your wheels." And frankly, that's about where I'm at while waiting for lake ice to form a solid mantle on area lakes.

It's been a long and frustrating wait. But now, a few reports are coming in. One came from a good friend of mine who travels widely across the state, and he is telling me that many smaller lakes in northern counties now have two to five inches of ice.

Is the ice safe? He tells me that it is marginal, even on lakes with five inches. Strong winds have broken up some ice a couple of days ago, and it has frozen again. Broken ice that re-freezes isn't nearly as safe as a solid layer.

Don't fish alone on ice, and pay attention to instincts

And then there are the springs to watch out for. Springs can weaken ice directly above where the water bubbles out of the lake bottom, and it can cause wide variations in ice thicknesses in the area.

Inlets and outlets of lakes can cause serious ice problems as well. The moving water tends to eat away at the bottom of the ice, weakening it occasionally faster than cold weather can freeze it.

There are other problems. Wooden docks, old wood pilings and posts, and other woody debris sticking through the ice surface can seriously weaken the nearby ice.

A serious problem with late-forming ice is that if the ice has been broken apart, and then freezes again, it freezes at an uneven rate. One spot can have the strength of regular ice, and 10 yards away is a spot that has very brittle and poor ice.

Weak spots may appear safe, especially if they have a certain amount of snow on top. Too much snow insulates the ice, and it doesn't freeze evenly or properly. A skiff of snow can hide weakened ice, and a misstep by an angler can send him crashing through.

Ice doesn't freeze evenly and can be treacherous.

I'm seriously wanting to go ice fishing. However, I am antsy about going out on early ice. I want safe ice under my feet, and I've been known to pass up ice fishing all winter if the ice is unstable. Years ago, I would accept such risks.

Now days, there may be a tinge of yellow running up my back. If any part of me gets that certain feeling, a hunch, an intuition, a queasy feeling in my guts, that things may not be right, I stay off the ice. I met a friend who told me the ice was safe, and I had a strong gut feeling about the ice conditions. My instincts told me to stay on shore.

I told him that perhaps I would join him later. He got 10 feet from shore, and went through into chest-deep water. No danger of drowning, but he was spitting and sputtering from the cold water as he broke ice back to shore.

He wanted to know why I didn't follow him

He was soaked through, and was heading for his car. He paused while unlocking his car door and asked a pointed question.

"Why didn't you walk out onto the ice with me?" he asked. "Why did you stand up on shore?"

I told him that my instincts, gut feelings, whatever one wants to call them, have taken care of me over the years, and I've learned to rely on them. They told me to stay on shore, which I did, and I told him that is why you are cold and wet and I am not.

Gut instincts. Many people have never cultivated or listened to their inner feelings. It's why some people become victims. Me, I don't care to become a winter statistic as a result of stupidity. It also answers the question of why I don't ride snowmobiles.

Life’s baggage and some memories

I land a New Zealand brown trout here.

 

We begin life naked and squalling, and should we live long enough, a busy lifetime of fishing and hunting will leave us with some priceless items. Few are valuable from a monetary standpoint, but all are worth more than gold because of the wonderful memories they help me remember.

Our personal outdoor baggage, if such it is, consists of the odds and ends and memories from a lifetime spent on the water and in the fields; in the marshlands and woods; on the ground and in a tree. My 72nd birthday passed late last month, and I have spent a great deal of time sifting through my priceless baggage of timeless memories.

My mental and physical load consists of certain things that can be held, looked at, and reminisced over. Memories are found everywhere for a packrat like me, and I keep them around for a good reason: every mounted animal, bird or fish; each of my several hundred fishing-hunting hats; all of my bows, firearms, fishing reels and rods; even my tackle boxes -- all have one or more great stories behind them. Those stories bring me life.

As we move toward old age, old memories of outdoor events keep us going

 

Here is a good example: on the wall between my mounted fish is an old Shakespeare glass fly rod. I used it daily for 10 years of guiding brown trout, salmon and steelhead river fishermen on Michigan streams, and the stories that rod could tell would be wonderful. Over 10,000 salmonids have been landed with that rod, and it was retired in 1979 after I beached a 30-pound Chinook salmon. I heard a muffled creak as the brute of a fish was landed, and after removing the fly and releasing the fish, I retired that rod and it now hangs in a worthy place of honor where it daily reminds me of my 10-year guiding career.

My junk room, in my basement, has many different hats hanging from the rafters. There is a unique story behind every one, including one from Detroit's Homicide Squad that states: "Our day starts when yours ends." There are hats from Alaskan hunts, fishing trips in New Zealand, product hats worn on one hunt or another, and hats from friends who know I collect them. However, the only hats I hang are those with a fishing or hunting tale that goes with them. I could spend hours studying this worthless hat collection that has provided over 55 years of fishing and hunting memories while shading my eyes from the sun.

Whoa. Here is a signed and framed copy of Robert Traver's (John Voelker) "Testament Of A Fisherman." It was signed by him on Feb. 1, 1982 and states: “To my fellow writer and fisherman, Dave Richey, with all good wishes." It's worth very little except to me because I valued my long and great friendship with Voelker and often think of him although he passed away 20 years ago. I look at his Testament, read it at least once each week, and it's a priceless memento.Great writing organizations help me maintain my grip on the outdoor life.

It's been my privilege to belong to the Outdoor Writers Association of America (OWAA), which I joined in 1968, and on my office walls are my writing awards. Four of the nearly 40 stand out:

These outdoor memories of mine give me great pleasure.

 

OWAA's prestigious Ham Brown Award and their Excellence In Craft Award; Michigan United Conservation Club's Ben East Award For Excellence In Conservation Journalism; and the Michigan Outdoor Writer's exalted Papa Bear Award for Excellence in Craft. There are many others, but these four remind me of my 45 years spent writing outdoor copy for my valued readers.

The other day I spent hours sorting through my life's baggage, and it was fun. There was a box containing all of my fishing and hunting licenses from my teenage and later years. I have most but not all of my earliest fishing and hunting licenses from this state, and some date back to the 1950s. It takes a few minutes but eventually a thought will reveal a heralded moment of fishing from a 1957 fishing license, and those old licenses still have the required Trout Stamp attached.

One license held a stamp of Michigan's old Fish Car that was used by the Department of Natural Resources to carry trout to northern streams for stocking, and it is scarce now.
One man's baggage is another man's treasure trove of outdoor memories. Such is the case with some of my successful bear, deer and turkey patches. My lot in life is to record as much of our fishing and hunting heritage as possible, and to present it in a way that others can enjoy. Take a moment now, and think about some of your things and the joys they have produced.

I look about me, and everything helps me recall old fishing and hunting trips

 

It doesn't always require an item to bring a memory to mind. I remember my dear friend Max Donovan of Clio and think of him often. He lost a leg early in life, was a hemophiliac, and fished and hunted harder than most people I know. I remember days on Saginaw Bay under leaden skies with a strong nor'easter huffing, and the mallard stooling to our decoys. I remember most of his many hits, and several of his memorable misses, and they always bring a smile to my face.

We can travel through a life of fishing and hunting, and retain most of our memories. Because, if nothing else, those thoughts spark a fire in sportsmen. That fire will blaze up into a full-blown recollection of a memorable day or event in our lives that must be remembered long after our ability to hike the hills and wade the streams has ended.

Those memories are what keep us alive.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors