Thirty years ago, I was introduced to the sport of ice fishing by a chef at the restaurant where I worked. Some of you may fondly remember Perry’s Fish House on Shelburne Road
To live passionately is to embrace all our experiences with fascination and respect.
Normally, I like to use this venue to espouse the virtues and spiritual connections through hunting, fishing, foraging, and generally learning to find joy through immersion in the outdoors.
I recently headed up into the mountains in search of native brook trout with a few very accomplished angler friends—Mark Wilde and John Lesher.
It’s mid-summer now, and the trout have figured out that if they want to survive the heat they’ve got to find deep pools with water temps below 70 degrees.
The current pandemic has changed a lot of our daily interactions and caused us to take a closer look at what really matters. When the population of our country is struggling to maintain a civil discourse on politics, I have found great solace in my own form of worship: that of nature and all that she offers us.
The last week of February and the first two weeks of March are one of my favorite times in winter. The days are growing longer, the sun is higher in the sky, and the breezes begin to carry the promise of warmer days ahead. And most importantly the Great White Perch season is in full swing!
The intrinsic values of fly fishing and fine art are intertwined to depths unimaginable to the untrained eye. The rhythm of motion in a perfectly thrown cast and the fluid stroke of a brush. The arcing line of a weight-forward fly line and the loading of a well-structured rod blank imitates the weight of paint on the brush as the artist transfers the subtle nuances of color to the canvas.
Even us whacky ice fishermen who love the cold barren environment on the frozen lake, share a certain affinity for the second Saturday in April. Known in some circles as the “Glorious Opening Day of Trout Season,” for many of us it is simply the celebration of swiftly flowing water and the hope of hooking up with nice holdover rainbow.
Come join the party! All are welcome—just make sure you have your fishing license!
I had an old Jeep CJ-7 whose floorboard had rotted out, and we installed a sheet-metal door on hinges…
My old Toyota truck rolls merrily down the highway on a late afternoon. The sun is shining brightly. The temperature is at a perfect setting—no one complains that it is too cool or too warm. It’s perfect. It’s one of those days that we bank on all winter.
Some people say we’re due for a January thaw. As I write this, the temperature outside is -3 and the wind chill is -20. The night sky has finally opened up after a snowstorm blanketed the valley, and the stars are shimmering brightly. It’s the kind of cold that when you breathe in, the hairs inside your nose clang together like fragile glass tendrils daring to shatter. All around us people are hibernating in their dens, huddled against the woodstove or heater. But the hardiest of us are enjoying the arctic blast, knowing that the lake is “making ice.” If I were a betting man, I’d put money on the whole lake freezing over this year and lots of truck traffic in the bays.
Ice fishing is not just for rednecks anymore. Put away those stereotypes of tobacco chewing, cussing, Bud-swilling archetypes and…