by Chris Thayer

The power of the ice shifting under a setting silver crescent moon gave us something to talk about as we baited the hooks and dropped our lines in. Every few seconds the ice made loud low-pitched booms followed by sonar-like submarine radar sounds from below us. The fish were depth charging us! We thought we were the only ones on the entire reservoir. Blake said something like “Sorry to interrupt, but should I be scared?” As I began to give orders to load the torpedoes, the ice made a loud snapping noise right beneath us. I jumped back and let out an uneasy laugh. We began to rationalize. It was nine degrees out and getting colder, it had to be safe.

Sitting on the Eleven Mile Reservoir, in the dark, and all alone, we must have looked like two paranoid squirrels. Blake was twitching his head side-to-side searching for the source of the sound, then back to the hole and up to the star filled sky. I in constant motion, on alert yet more worried about making sure the pasta was just right than anything else. Coyotes howled at the now non-existent moon and their howls seemed in sync with the ice cracking, popping and emitting its own terrifying bass sound. They sounded like screaming little girls and the techno beat of the ice putwangs and ka-thuds made for the perfect ambiance of a lousy high school party. Blake and I were beginning to question what Mr. Reichert, a local at the general store, had said. “Night? The best fishing is always at night.” Then why was not a single other soul here?

Colorado is to ice fishermen as Hawaii is to surfers, with stocked reservoirs all over the state and higher elevation lakes with ice fishing almost all of the year. But finding a companion for ice fishing is no easy task when most of your friends play adrenaline-infused helmet sports. Blake had managed to get fishing gear from a friend, just two regular rods, an assortment of hooks and smelly fish bait, which boldly stated “Not For Consumption.” Fishing passes are $5.25 a day, and require a drivers license and social security number. Our decision to go to Eleven Mile Reservoir was based on the fact that it held an ice fishing competition that was past due by two weeks. We decided to stop at Reichert’s General Store, a historical, 70-year-old, family-run, fishing/gas/convenience/liquor store where the, um, “hours vary.” At 6 p.m., lights had to be turned on in the rooms we wanted to visit. As this would be the last commercial place before the reservoir, we asked Kimberly Reichert, the owner’s daughter, about fishing. Her dad promptly came over and told us “Anything we wanted, I will hold back no secrets.” We were anxious to go fishing immediately, even though the night was setting in, and according to him, this was not only plausible, but advised.

A 16 mile up-and-down two-lane dirt-and-snow packed road brought us to Howberts Point, which allowed us to fish in the most open place on the lake. We found nobody there, but we did find promising ice holes. We beat at them and chipped the three-inch-thick ice, ending the life of my metal hammer which obviously didn’t like the entire situation. Meanwhile, Blake taught me what jigging was. This simple process involves raising and lowering the rod a foot or so about every three seconds. After about an hour of this I began to chant “Here snipe! Here snipe!” and simply did the repetitive motion to keep warm. Every two minutes or so, I stood up to break up the ice in the holes where it had refrozen while Blake went off ranting about smelly baits. Forcing me to smell every one of them, he came upon one called Pork Frog that, “just smells like Satan.” According to Blake nothing in the entire box was “smelly enough for this trip.”

Covered in frost, we awoke to a radio that played a song by a band called Presidents of the United States of America: “Fuck you kitty, you’re gonna spend the night...Outside!!!” Like excited cats hungry for fish we watched the early risers already set up on the ice. I gave up all hope of jigging this early morning so I could observe the strange culture of equipment all around us. One man had an odd circular plate that looked like it could fly, placed over his ice hole, but he was off having an astonishingly good time with what looked like a weedwhacker that drilled a circular hole in the ice. Known by ice fishermen as a power auger, this tool makes an eight-inch hole in about 20 seconds. For kicks I borrowed a hand-powered one. Five minutes of very strenuous work only got me about a foot and a half deep in the ice, so when the average ice from year to year is three feet thick, switching holes is a serious commitment. And switching holes happens often. Even the most focused individuals can only peer into an empty hole for a few hours.

An older man, dressed in wool and denim, dragged a sled onto the ice all alone, then lay back in his chair right in the open, like us. Beside him in a wooden box was a fish finder he had constructed with a screen that told him if there were fish below. I placed my camera under my jacket to warm it up, in anticipation of taking pictures, but it promptly rolled out into our eight inch hole. Miles of ice, and it fell in our eight inch hole. Don Reed, the man with the fish finder, was the kind of guy who was just perfectly content to sit on the ice alone with absolutely no excitement. “Well if I don’t catch one today, I’ll come back another day and try again...I am one of the more hardcore, dedicated ice fisherman and maybe I’m just old school but I’ve been here four times this year and only caught two fish.” Mr. Reed drives from Colorado Springs just to fish this spot. “11 Mile is some of the toughest fishing and at night the ice makes absolutely hellacious sounds.” He said those noises we heard last night were nothing to be too worried about. Laughingly, he told me it wasn’t the ice but the wind that is the excitement of ice fishing. Last year he sat on the ice and kept fishing when the winds were blowing 60 miles an hour, watching everyone else scurry for their flying gear and runaway houses. A chair hit him on the back of the head and knocked him out, but it didn’t stop Mr. Reed from fishing. The wind was only about 25 miles an hour now, but our gear was blowing away and as we left him to chase it, we fell sliding all over the ice. I bet he just looked up and laughed.

We moved to Witches Point, a more enclosed place where there were probably 20 ice fishing shacks. On this sunny day, there were a similar number of “homeless” fishermen. We spoke to Mark Silas, a park ranger who said the fishing was really slow this year, and that he only sees somebody bring back a few fish every week. He told us some history of the Denver Water-owned reservoir. He remarked to ice fishing, “I wouldn’t do that. I am more excited with climbing and running.” I inquired about why the water was down so much and he quickly remarked that the water level is down nine feet this year, better than the 22 feet it was down last year, so we should stop complaining. Off to the side, a group of fishermen told me that the only people who catch fish here have a whole religious ritual. They sit in private, mumble words and pray all their life and only if a miracle happens do they bring up a fish. I asked if “Here snipe! Here snipe!” works, and one man grinned back “ah, exactly.” I had to get into a hut to see this ritual in action.

While fishing at Witches Point I saw a man stumble out of his shack and pee right in front of us. Don said the best thing about fishing was looking down and seeing fish below you. He also said beer plays an integral part in the sport. “You can’t get dehydrated, but you got to have fun. If we don’t catch, it don’t matter none.” I asked if I could go inside and take a look. He introduced me to the man in the hut, Dennis, as “He’s my wife’s son.” They had everything from heaters, ice auger, fishfinders, underwater cameras, and cases of beer to woven slimy beach chairs. By now many people on the ice started to glance over at me taking notes and pictures all over the ice. Blake and I felt like a two-man comedy tour. As we walked away they laughed, “He wanted a picture of me. Hahahaa.”

I only met one set of people that were not as welcoming as the rest. Dressed in woodsy camouflage in front of their pickup, they acted as if they were seeing some sort of mirage. One of the men spoke in incomplete, incomprehensible sentences and looked just over my left shoulder as if to look right through me while the other glanced around as if I was either a policeman or some sort of practical joke. I suppose ice fishing attracts all kinds. Overall I was in awe of everyone’s kindness. Just about everyone was willing to take us in and show us a few things about the joys of ice fishing. Some man gave us a Waterdog as he passed us, which is an awkward looking, tadpole-like salamander larvae. Confused as to what to do with this and not wanting to hook this slimy animal we passed off the good deed to another group, who came over and drilled two holes in the ice with their power auger for us.

After speaking to just about everyone that would talk to us, and finding not a single fish, it started to snow. We had been fishing on and off for 22 hours now and finally lost all hope of catching a fish. Even though we had fun just being out there, it is hope that keeps the sport alive. Blake and I spoke of how much fun we had, and would have to return sometime. Sleep deprived, cold, and sunburned we left with large satisfied smiles for everyone. We had only began to understand the sport of ice fishing, which seemed more like the sport of drowning mealworms while drinking and laughing with friends on a temporarily frozen body of water. Everyone was there for his (I didn’t see a single woman on the ice) own reasons, but catching fish was only part of the excitement. Mostly it was just to get away and be yourself in a sport where anything goes.
On the journey home we spoke of the park ranger who told us a man drowned last October and they still hadn’t found him in the reservoir. It seemed odd that he spoke of this when we were inquiring about fishing. We picked up a hitchhiker, which I don’t usually do, but it was the right thing to do at the time. He asked to remain nameless but when told we went fishing at 11 Mile Reservoir and were unsuccessful he immediately remarked “Yeah, my neighbor drowned there in October and they still haven’t found him, maybe the fish are just feeding off him, that’s why you didn’t catch any.” Blake and I made eye contact as if to simultaneously agree WEIRD....