THE LAND NORTH OF SUPERIOR<o:p></o:p>

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Winter is a great time of the year to enjoy the land north of Superior I love.  This becomes especially true when there are fish to be had and the taking of them can be done in comfort.  Spend a day with me in  the land north of Superior.<o:p></o:p>

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It was cold!  It had been cold for over two weeks now with no let up in sight, from the Rockies east the weather map on the late news had shown temperatures of �?5 to �?0C.  The old truck had groaned a bit when I had cranked her over, even though she had been plugged in.  A guy had to be a bit soft in the head to climb out of a perfectly comfortable, warm bed at six on a Saturday morning in late January.

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 During a phone call from my Dad he had said the magic words, “They’re driving out to Caribou, Timo and I were wondering if you wanted to come along and get some lakers in the morning?�?/P>

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That was why my super cab 4X4 was sitting idling at the turn-around that everyone used as their jumping of point to the island we fished by.  The wait was only a few moments before I saw the familiar shape of Dad’s mini-van pull in behind me.  Their packsacks went into the covered back of my truck.  Dad and Timo jumped into the cab and we were off.  The drop to the shoreline and then onto the lake ice was 4X4 driving as we growled and dipped and danced our way to the tracks leading out onto some serious water.

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We had seven km to go before we would peel off and head towards the big island.  We had gone only about ½ way when we noticed the first truck parked some fifty meters from the ice road.  Two guys huddled over a hole in the ice; one of them was cranking his reel handle furiously.  After that we saw trucks and snow machines on both sides of the well used tire tracks we followed.  Our own ‘secret�?landmark on the island came into view and we peeled of to the left.  There were people fishing in widely scattered groups everywhere.  At our spot, I drove the truck in a circle and pointed the nose back to shore for the return trip.

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Outside it was cold.  The power auger, fired on first pull, and Dad went to work drilling holes some fifty feet from each other.  Timo and I rigged our dead smelt hooks and soon had weighted bait sinking into the 190 feet of water under us.  Once on the bottom we anchored the home made rods with their line holders in a mound of snow by the open hole.  A small piece of pink surveyors ribbon marked the line position so it could be seen from any hole of the seven Dad drilled into the thirty inch black ice.  We each set one more line and were busy rigging Dad’s two legal baits when Dad shut off the auger.  It stood ready to use in a partially drilled hole.

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“Kala!�?Fish!)  Why my excited voice was pitched so low I don’t know, but we just talked quietly.  I trotted over to the second bait I had sank into the cold depths and watched as the line peeled slowly off the free spinning custom made spool.

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 Two heads bobbed beside mine,  “Don’t touch him yet�? I got from one hooded face.  “Leave him run the second time�? came from the second.  The line had stopped and my heart pounded, had the laker noticed the metal hooks on either side of the smelt’s head, had there been any resistance while the line unspooled from the balanced reel?  Either would send the fish searching for new food at the bottom of the lake.  Several more moments and urgent cautions, I was the youngest and therefore a rookie who needed guidance, and the black spool started turning again.  The laker had it!

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Off came my gloves and I gently cradled the line in one hand.  Slowly I increased pressure, taking the long slack up until I felt just a touch of weight at the end of the line.  “NOW�?Two voices beside me gave advise, as I pulled hard, bringing the line through a five-foot sweep.  The line jerked frantically in my hand, the fish was on.  Hand over hand the fish was lifted from the depths; my Dad was the free line man.  He was walking slowly away from the hole, laying down the twelve-pound monofilament in a straight double line.  The fish showed a ghostly white as it swam past the ten-inch hole, it was a nice one, about seven or eight pounds.  The edge of the hole was the danger point; if he didn’t come up nose first try, the odds of him swimming free, before a second attempt were high.  The head came up perfectly and in triumph I hooked two fingers behind the gill plate and flopped him on the ice several feet from the hole.

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The straight line was respooled easily and a new smelt threaded onto the double hook.  The sinker was checked so it would allow free passage of the line was checked.  Before my bait had spiraled it’s way to the bottom, Dad was again playing line man as Timo pulled another laker up from it’s frigid home.

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There was barely enough time in the next hour to get into the truck cab to warm numbed fingers as on after another the baits were hit.  Several were lost in the depths; one rubbed the line against the ice hole and got away.  We were putting our gear away as the Conservation Officer pulled up on his snow machine. 

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“You guys are doing all right,�?He grinned at us as he stepped off his sled.  “Looks like yous are going home with a limit�?SPAN> 

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There are those days when no sane man should leave his bed at six in the morning to run around on a wind swept lake and washing his hands in a hole he made himself through three feet of ice.  But the fish melting in your mouth makes even the most brutal day in the land north of Superior better than staying at home and watching reruns.