An ode to Gray Stevens, a legend of outdoor sports

As I walk onto the ice in the darkness, the horizon is just beginning to show her true colors. She is merging from a dark blue to a royal purple, and I know that, as with all darkness, we will again witness the blessing and warmth of the light.

As always, I test the ice with my spud (not the potato kind) because I know from experience that not all ice is uniform in thickness and there are underwater springs in some lakes and ponds.

I found this out years ago when a couple of us were foolish enough to think that if there were already a dozen people on the ice, it must be safe, right? About 200 yards from shore, I went through up to my waist. Fortunately, it was a low-water year and my feet touched the mucky bottom. I was able to pull myself out, but the momentary terror of my icy immersion was enough to carve out a deep neuro pathway into my brain.

But I continued to fall in love with this sport ever more deeply. Once you’ve learned to “read” the ice, whether it is clear and black (good) or soft and honeycombed (bad) and what the booming sounds under the surface mean, it can allay some of the fear. The deep booming sounds when it’s below freezing, the ones that sound like depth charges, are actually the lake “making ice,” which is done from below the surface. Ice grows from beneath and deteriorates from above.

Many well-respected ice-fishing veterans will venture out on 2 inches of clear black. Then again, almost every year, one of those “veterans” plunges into the frigid water and doesn’t come out alive. I’ve fished on 3 inches. I won’t do it again. Four is my minimum, and I’m much happier on 6 or more. Interior lakes freeze up sooner and get thicker faster than Champlain, so we like to travel into mid-state or northern ponds.

There have been so many great times on the ice in the last 35 years. Days where we filled buckets of white perch and, once or twice, a sled full of yellow perch. It’s hard to explain the excitement when the ice rod in your hand suddenly jerks strongly down, bending to the hole.

You never really know for sure what is on the other end of the line. It could be a nice “yellowbelly” or an iridescent rainbow trout. If the rod is bent all the way over and is not bouncing back, if the line is screaming off the reel, it could be a “gator” (a colloquial term for northern pike). If it is the latter, you may find yourself yelling to the rest of your party for help. Northerns have a pretty sharp set of teeth and can do some real damage to your hand if not handled properly.

There is so much to learn and the importance of seeking knowledgeable instructors or mentors is paramount. Hundreds of women learned about the joy of ice fishing through a program called “Doe Camp,” which ran for more than 20 years under the auspices of Vermont Outdoor Woman through an organization called Vermont Outdoor Guides Association started by Gray Stevens. This is where my story turns bittersweet.

Today, I am walking onto the ice for the first time this season. I am bundled up in my flotation suit, balaclava, heavy arctic mittens and towing my sled with my ice rods, lures, auger and my favorite pickle bucket. I am breathing through a small opening in my balaclava and my nose hairs are rattling in the below-zero temperature.

But, like any half-crazed ice fisherman, I am grinning as I walk into the north wind. The lake is making that deep bellowing sound, which both surprises and comforts me. I am walking toward a spot I was shown decades ago by this legendary outdoorsman.

A tear rolls down my cheek as I reach my spot far out in the bay. It tracks down my cheek and slowly freezes before reaching my chin.

I am thinking of my dear friend, Gray, and speaking aloud to the impending sunrise. “Gray, I know that where you are, the sun is shining and the perch are biting like crazy.” I can envision the soft light of a winter’s dawn emphasizing the weathered cracks in your grizzled face. Yours is the face of a true mountain man. A legend among outdoorsmen and women. I can imagine your mischievous smile as you greet the dawn with your deep-chested laugh.

Gray Stevens, a true leader and ambassador of all traditional sports, left us this past December just days away from the New Year. For those who didn’t know Gray, he was a tireless promoter of hunting, fishing and all outdoor sports in Vermont. He started Vermont Outdoor Guides Association and worked to promote and protect all that we cherish. The association listed every credible guide service, outfitter and state resource for maps and activities across the Green Mountains, from Bennington to Alburg to Newport and beyond. When there was a threat to one of our beloved sports, he made sure that the issues were relayed to anyone who wished to stand with him and let our politicians know we spoke as one. As a founder of Vermont Outdoor Woman and the concept of “Doe Camp” he introduced women to the outdoor adventures of hunting, shooting, fishing, wilderness survival. Most importantly, he inspired women to find their voice and to stand confidently among the “old-boy network” of outdoorsmen as equals.

As I drill my holes into the ice of our lakes and ponds this month, if I am facing away from you, into the wind, sitting quietly, please respect that the tear rolling down my face is in his honor. If you choose to, pull up a seat and sit quietly beside me. Don’t say a word. Just sit with me, quietly, while I pray that Gray is watching us from the Great Pond above.

(Bradley Carleton is executive director of Sacred Hunter.org, a privately owned limited liability corporation that seeks to educate the public on the spiritual connection of man to nature through hunting, fishing and foraging. His writing can be followed here.)