Argh! I just set the hook in the winning fish at the 13th Annual Big Eagle Lake Association ice fishing contest, but I didn’t win. Let me explain.
The hole next to me was occupied by a nice young man - maybe 10 to 12-years in age. He had chatted with me about my Marcum depth finder as he was putting his line into the water. About an hour into the tournament, he was losing interest in the conversation and the fishing. A quick thought about how his grubs were not working had him heading off the ice to buy different bait. Part of his excursion may have been the result of boredom - the fish simply were not in the biting mood, or it could be there they were nowhere near the 500 holes drilled by the association prior to the tournament.
I don’t even know what I thought about my own hole selection. After all, I really didn’t have much choice in the hole. I arrived with my son about ½ hour late for the start of the tournament. We gathered next to my brother-in-law, father, and uncle. My dad had already weighed of fish. My options for a hole were either this one right here, or that one over there. Since I was already here, I thought that the best choice.
The fish my dad weighed gave me little hope of success on this day. A micrometer would have been needed if this were a fish girth contest. Fortunately, there was also a small fish of the prize; there was still hope for a prize in our group. A couple of other fishermen had shot by in either some sort of running-of-the-baits competition, or with small catches to rival that of my dad’s. The outlook on our fish catching chances was horrible.
Next to me though…something about that hole; that young man’s fishing spot. There his rod sat alone; a lone yellow foam bobber circling the hole pushed by the day’s breeze. Bloop! Down the bobber went. Bloop, bloop! It darted down again. I was hoping in his absence the boy’s group would notice the action; I turned my shoulder to the bobbing at my right, trying to ignore what he wasn’t there to see. Instead, I focused on the bites I was not getting. But then the rod slid. Another tug from below and the rod slid a little further. I looked toward the boy’s group again to see if someone was coming to tend to the rod. Nope! My eyes shot through the crowd looking for the boy in a real-world game of “Where’s Waldo”. As I glanced back down the rod was trying to make a clean getaway into the hole leading down to 18 feet of frigid water.
I jumped and snatched-up the nearly submerged rod and reel, sure to flip the tip upward as the rig sat backward in my hand. Thud! The line didn’t move on my acrobatic hook-set. It started slipping off the reel as the drag became fully engaged. “Umm…” was all I could muster as I looked at the man and woman accompanying the boy. Finally, the man – Scott, I later learned – ran to the rod. He’d pull and reel, and drag would slip. Underneath the icepack was one determined fish. It was the main event of the day – Scott the challenger vs. something really big that was probably the champion from many fights before. My brother-in-law was on standby with a gaff to make sure no fish coming up the hole was getting away. I stood in awe, knowing a possible tournament winner was caught within four feet of the hole I was fishing.
Finally, after putting all the strain on a rod that a stick of fiberglass can bear - bloosh - came the fish through the hole – a monster of a northern pike. Even after arduous scrap, the northern still had enough energy to display its crankiness as it flopped upon the surface of the ice. Scott, along with a cast of stander-bys untangled the fish from its Fire Line handcuffs. Just before 2:00pm it was weighed and released. The 6.9lb northern darted back into the icy water with a slap of its tail and vengeful splash.
The weight was more than enough to win the hourly big fish giveaway – a Strikemaster hand ice auger. Then, as the contest came to a close, the fish proved worthy of a contest win. The closest competitor brought in a crappie just over a pound - a slab indeed, but only bait when compared to the size of the winning northern.
For his efforts, the young man fishing next to me was awarded a new 4-stroke Strikemaster. For mine, I was left the satisfaction – and frustration – of knowing I hooked biggest fish of the day, just four feet from a contest win.
Bob Wood
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