Frozen Holes

I walked across the lake the other day.
Now, before everyone south of Indiana starts bringing me their blind, I need to clarify: the lake was frozen.

I know! Frozen enough to walk on!!! It was the first time I had ever stepped foot on a frozen body of water.
Scary cool. (Actually, "frighteningly cold" is more accurate as it was about 13 degrees.)

My destination: The Junior Clam. "Blue canvas ice shanty two left of the other two but not the one in the middle."

The Hole Whisperers

These superb directions meant that we started walking from the Boat Dock (I call it the "Put In") and walked 3/4 of the way across the lake to the Clam.
We shudda started from the other side.

This means my first words upon Clam Arrival was something to the tune of, "We shudda started from the other side."
There was, perhaps, a reference to the fishermen's intelligence or maybe even something about the marital state of their parents when they were born.

They were too cold to speak but I think they shrugged their shoulders at me. Hard to tell through their ice fishing finery.
I was nice and toasty from my completely unintentional hike.
I was (as I usually am when forced to exert) sweaty and bitter and prone to sarcasm.
Hard to picture, I know! I'm usually so sweet!

I looked back from whence we came. It was your basic long, white expanse of flatness. Punctuated by our tiny, tenuous footsteps and one big, ugly scar from when I fell down.

Turns out underneath all that pretty snow is ice. It's slippery. Go figure.

More disturbing, it's clear.

When you look down under your feet, you see...nothing. Water, I guess. Like a glass-bottom boat. Really, really creepy.
When I fell, I knew I was going to go straight into the lake.
No matter that I had fifteen ice shanties and three snowmobiles in my line of vision. They seemed pretty stable.
I thought my mignon-eatin', merlot-drinkin' ass was going down, for sure.

At least my body would still look good in the casket since I would be instantly frozen and preserved until they fished me out in the Spring.
I had on clean underwear and a fresh manicure. My Hike-To-The-Ice-Shanty costume was pretty cute. It wasn't all bad, right?

Well, the ice was about eighteen inches deep, the Stud of Stability hauled me up right away and my well-fed/dressed/manicured ass was on the ice for about two seconds.
While my internal dialogue was lengthy, dramatic and fraught with symbolic imagery, the external dialogue sounded something like,
"You good?"
"Yup."

Oh how I love being a woman.....

Finally, after this death-defying hike, we reached the Junior Clam. 
Inside there's just enough room for two grown men to stare at their holes for six hours.
Maybe when you graduate to the Senior Clam, there's room the banjo player.

I really don't understand this particular hobby.
Why would you want to haul all an entire house onto the ice, dig a hole and shiver over it for the day?
Granted, the beer stays real, real cold.
But, an ice shanty is too small to odiforously fart in and you can't really scratch your balls through five pairs of pants.
That's pretty much the prerequisites for Guy Time, right?
What am I missing here?

In the South, guys just loll around in the warm den and watch either football or NASCAR, depending on the season.
They drink beer, eat Velveeta Cheese Dip and absently wave their Frito-Farts away, leaving just enough of a whiff for a congratulatory fist-bump.
"Nice one, Earl."

I would not suggest an open flame in the Junior Clam.  ...just sayin'...

I got a little tour, some basic instruction and tried my hand at the Hole.
I think we were using yesterday's Smelt leftovers for bait.
I didn't get any nibbles but I think I brought a little class and sophistication to the experience.

Guess which one is me!

The guys got to trot out all the standard fishing jokes on me. They're the same ones I heard on Texoma at 4:00am bass fishing with my PawPaw.
My favorite is the one where the fisherman justifies his lack of fishing prowess by exalting his mastery of the use of bait.
Makes me laugh every time but joke is a little too tacky even for this, the tackiest of blogs. You have no idea how bad I want to use that punchline as the title right now....
For the fourteen people who don't get it, I'll post it on the SFF facebook page.

After posing for the photo op, I was escorted by one of the Masters to the other side of the lake. It was a little easier since we were able to walk in the drag marks of the Clam Trail.
Then he drove me home in his lovely, warm car.

I said I walked across the lake. That doesn't mean I had to walk back.

Besides, I was cold and my lips were turning blue.
Which a) is not a good color on me and b) totally clashed with my costume.

In the end, Action Figure Dave did indeed become a Master Fisherman!

This prompted whole 'nother round of jokes about how he got that big fish out of that little, bitty...
Never mind.

This is definitely one of those times that.....

Anita Merlot