Little fish and a frigid month; lessons learned
Taking common things for granted is an easy pitfall outdoor fans do well to watch out for. Consider the bluegill. It鈥檚 an abundant but small fish, available in any lake, pond or sluggish stream in this region. It鈥檚 also inquisitive, always hungry and generally easy to catch. No outdoor television show that depicts pricey Florida tarpon trips also features bluegill fishing. Bluegills are 鈥渢oo common鈥� for that. So, there鈥檚 a danger of considering them generally less worthy.
But, if you pursue bluegills in a novel setting, different from the norm 鈥� say through the ice of a plain old western Pennsylvania pond, these scrappy sunfish take on new luster.
My friend Ron and I enjoyed several ice-outings for bluegills this month. Those local trips also pointed out another bit of outdoor wisdom 鈥� be careful what you wish for.
Readers may remember that this column has lamented the warm weather that鈥檚 intruded on recent hunting seasons. Lines written in this space have wished for hunting in cooler conditions remembered from youth.
Being careful about what you wish for applies because my ice-fishing friends and I never invested in a gasoline-powered auger to bore our holes for fishing. During recent feeble winters, a hand-powered drill propelled by human muscle worked just fine. A few spins of the crank and the blade sheared through to liquid water. That device really performed when we had young guys in their twenties in our group, including my son Aaron, to accomplish the work. But, as naturally happens, our younger cohorts have moved on in one way or another and are not always available to accompany us. So, it鈥檚 often just Ron and I, two 鈥済rumpy old men,鈥� who totter onto the crust. But holes still need to be cut before you can fish.
When ice-fishing, you are legally allowed to employ five lines per angler. So, our first time out this winter, we assumed we鈥檇 drill 10 holes. It didn鈥檛 take long to abandon that na茂ve assumption.
We selected our spots, spun the crank, bore down with all our might, cranked some more, then stopped to gulp air. We took turns on the crank, one of us resting while the other sweated and wheezed. At first, I thought the blades had gone dull, even though I鈥檇 cleaned and oiled them for the months of storage. But the shavings mounded higher around the hole and the auger鈥檚 blue steel spiral kept receding deeper into the frost. Knowing five inches of frozen water would make safe fishing, I dug the chips out of our deepening shaft and gaped at a foot of clear, uniform, iron-hard ice. I could see dark water through the remaining mantle, but none gushed upward. We kept boring, resting and taking turns. When we finally reached liquid, it welled up to the surface like a wildcat oil strike.
Our weather since Christmas had delivered what I鈥檇 wished for 鈥� unrelenting ice-building cold鈥揳nd Ron and I paid for that whine with burning triceps and shortness of breath. When we鈥檇 managed a total of six circular openings, we agreed we鈥檇 better start fishing, before our wives expected us home. We also agreed to start shopping for a gasoline auger.
We baited up with waxworms threaded on tiny weighted jigs, dropped the baits to the bottom then eased them upward, just enough to suspend above the silt.
It didn鈥檛 take long to be rewarded for our efforts. Some of the rods we use are fitted with an ingenious device called a 鈥渟pring-bobber.鈥� It鈥檚 a fragile strand of wire with an eye at the end through which the line is threaded. Winter fish often nibble gently, but even those timid bites are enough to wiggle the spring-bobber and signal a take. Our spring-bobbers started dipping and nodding before we got settled on our plastic 5-gallon buckets, inverted as seats. We caught bluegills as fast as we could bait up and get back into action.
And we had to admit 鈥� common or not 鈥� they were attractive fish. The males鈥� deep orange breast contrasted with ink-blue gill flaps. And the dark vertical bars on their sides accented a gilded background. The fins are broad, well-shaped and equip the fish perfectly for aquatic existence. Viewed in that light, they鈥檙e as handsome as any rainbow trout.
Next evening, Kathy and I shared a huge plate of cornmeal-breaded bluegill fillets fried golden brown. There is no better commercially available seafood, another good reason to not take the bluegill for granted.
The last time Ron and I fished the ice was still thick, and we labored again. But we were soon shedding our coats in the warmth and returned home with a sunburn. Who needs Florida?
Ben Moyer is a member of the Pennsylvania Outdoor Writers Association and the Outdoor Writers Association of America.