HOW COLD IS NIGHT FISHING IN THE FALL?

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I have been hunting moose in the same area for many years now.   During that weeklong moose trip I will go pickeral fishing a couple of times.  As the prime purpose of the trip is hunting I do my fishing at night.  Usually I fish alone and only complain about the cold the next spring, on opening weekend after I’ve had a chance to thaw out. 

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Two years prior to this particular trip new neighbours had moved in and set up camp just down the road from me.  We had been introduced during a chance meeting on the road.  That night I went on the water, wearing as much clothes as I had, my snow machine boots, toque, and large easy to take off gloves.  I fished from about ten in the evening until almost one in the morning.  I had caught about a dozen fish, several of them were rather large and I had released them.  In the final tally I had kept five, all in that beautiful 21/2 pound range.  As I was transferring them to my live trap a couple of helpful flashlights lit the area. 

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“Nice fish,�?came the comment from Tom, one of the new guys.  “Where’d you get them?�?/P>

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“OUT IN THE LAKE!�?SPAN>  I was a little terse, I was frozen, tired, and in no mood for civil pleasantries.  I offered,  “Let’s talk tomorrow!�?SPAN>  to make up for my rudeness.  The next day I offered to cook a pickeral super, they accepted and ate my fish!<o:p></o:p>

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I couldn’t take them fishing that year or the next; they forgot their fishing licences at home.  Not having their permits didn’t slow them down one little bit when I offered each year to do a fish fry.  To be perfectly honest I enjoyed those meals as much as they did.  When they came they had all that fresh produce from the farms around the area they lived in.  Those giant beefsteak tomatoes were my favourite.

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Now we were going fishing Tom; his bud, Jerry and myself.  Even though I had warned them about the cold they didn’t appear that well dressed.  A clear star filled night promised cold.  They assured me they were indeed comfortable.  Off we went, down the river and started hugging the shoreline after a left hand turn.  I had explained the tactics to them, long hundred foot plus lines, floating minnow imitations, and no weight.  We were fishing in only four to five feet of water.

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Within a few minutes I heard the first complaint about the cold.  Luckily for me I hooked one just about then.  As was my habit I pointed the boat out into the lake and then cut the engine.  The guys reeled their lines in to prevent fouling and tangling.  I reached into an inside pocket and extracted a pair of oversize rims that had tiny flashlights built into each arm.  When I put them on the lights came on and I could use both hands playing the fish, Tom had enough light to net the big lady on the first try.  Size in pounds is not really important, suffice to say that her bulging belly would not have looked good in a bikini, I informed them of my intent to release her to spawn again.

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An argument started about the release of this fish.  It was the biggest pickeral they had ever seen, there was no way they were going to let me release it!  But back into the cold water she went.  My headlights showed Jerry, his face wistful, as the fish disappeared.  Tom on the other hand was crying, big fat tears rolled down his checks.  He would cry a lot more that night as we caught twenty-five more fish and let ten of them go.  I had explained the rules at the start of the night, anything over four pounds went back automatically if it was cleanly hooked and not bleeding.  We would keep the bigger ones if they were gill hooked and bleeding, I would not waste fish, the law also says you can’t waste fish or game.  We had agreed that 2 AM would be the going home time.

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About quarter of two Tom gave a YELL. “I GOT ONE!�?SPAN> 

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I pointed the nose of the boat into the lake and cut the motor.  My headlights came on as I put them on.  His rod was deeply bent and bouncing erratically.  It was obviously a big fish!

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    “My reel is jammed,�?Tom’s voice was desperate.

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     I looked down and the truth was obvious.  His clutching fingers were trying to turn the handle of his reel.  But he had a problem.   Where the reel should have been tears had dripped and frozen!  A not so small football of frozen tears was now attached to his rod, only the reel handle extended from the ice ball.  No wonder he couldn’t reel in the fish pulling wildly at his rod.   A moment later the line snapped and his rod relaxed.   There was no point staying out any more.  We did have fifteen fish for a couple of feeds, which disappeared in record time.

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Nothing was said about the frozen reel.  In the five years they came back they never again remembered to bring their fishing licences.  I did ask, and yes I did cook them cold water pickeral.  In my world the sharing of good times comes first.  I try to keep even big fish stories honest but sometimes …�?/P>