In the style of poet Stephen Dunn.
This time of year, I love the cool, still nights when the temperatures drop into the single digits.
I love sitting by the wood stove and pulling old bills out of the baskets. I love tying fresh leaders, hooks right out of the package. I love the wooden noises the snares make. I love a perfectly rigged trap with a threaded knob so I can place the bait exactly where I want it. I love the accuracy in the middle of our toughest season.
I love the efficiency of a good trap, how it sinks again and again, how its beams show years spent. I love how each one folds into something smaller.
I love the first out, too thin ice for snowmobiles or four wheelers. I love the lake without shackles. I love the quietness, the lack of auger sounds. I love the view through the black ice, like if you look long enough, the frozen air bubbles look like stars in space. I love how I can walk on water or through the night sky. I love how easily my heavy sled drags over the glistening ice. I love the bite of the crampons with every step. I love the newness, I love knowing that this will all melt away in a couple of months.
I love to know that there will be no jet skis.
I love to think of the sight of the fish: a giant cap over their heads. I love imagining them looking at the bottoms of my boots.
I love this first chisel in black gel. I love the ice spray and the hollow just before I break. I love how the lake seeps, like from a wound, how the water pours out and refreezes in jagged puddles.
I love the visual confirmation of safety: 3 inches of clear black ice. I love being above the cracks knowing I’m safe. I love the way the water moves into the chiseled holes the closer I get.
I love that other people love it too.
I love walking single file, 50 feet away from my friend, Jersey, whose real name is Steve; love that we both carry bags, love that doesn’t mind when I remind her what state she’s from. I love knowing we are prepared and hope we never need these preparations. I love to hear that Jersey’s summer job involves throwing a rope to the outriggers.
I love that it shows up early every time we fish. I love that Jersey digs holes and sets traps with constant diligence. I love how he takes FaceTime calls from his little boy and shows him the trap he’s resetting. I love his optimism.
More than the stuck trap, I love the moment before, the flag held by the little o-ring. I love the simple physics, the harnessed potential. I also love the shape of the pinned snare, like half a heart.
I love the recognition moment: Flag!
I love how, once mentioned, that word punctuates everything else: meals, conversations, it doesn’t matter. I love the possibilities in the word. I love to scream it but I love to hear it scream just the same.
I love the way the flag floats, a fabric beacon of hope. I love to run, as Jersey and I run, until the first traps of the new year. I love being out of breath in winter clothes. I love how heavy the boots feel these last few yards.
I love the moment before I see the reel. I love how my mind spins, right now.
I love the reel blur just the big fish products.
I love the direct connection – no rod, no reel. I love headbutts, long, finger-burning runs.
I love to raise fish from the darkness, as if the lake had given birth. I love to release fish, and I love to keep a few white perch for dinner, in the pan, with a squeeze of lemon juice.
I love the simplicity of jig sticks.
I love that salmon hunt under the ice. I love this sting from the purists.
I love that in the first photo of my fishing I’m sitting on the floor of an ice shack with my hand stuck to a Cheez-It box.
I love that I only see certain people on the ice year after year, even though I know they live nearby year round.
I love how the voices carry the ice.
I love the venison in the pan on the Coleman stove.
I love bald eagles waiting for rejected decoys.
I love fishless days because we were trying.
I love to crawl into bed, afterwards. I love how quickly I fall asleep, how I wake up without having moved all night.
I love the recurring dream I’ve had since I was a kid: ice fishing on an impossibly gnarled tree, which I somehow see in cross-section, me trying to pull a fish that gets tangled in the limbs. I love how I always think about diving in but wake up before I have the chance. I love knowing that I might get another chance.
I love the coyote that watched me at Messalonskee Lake. I love that I woke up from my nap just as it was passing, silently, dear that I wasn’t dreaming at all.
I love the moaning of lakes in February, because I’m tired of winter too.
I love that Mainers call the lake trout.
I love the leg warmers that last until 4pm
I love fishing on warm March days in a t-shirt.
I love how many weather systems a winter day can hold.
I love how most of the time nothing happens. I love how a flag changes everything.
I love that I’ll be meeting Jersey in a couple of weeks if it’s cold.
I love that he gets there before me, he will have already gathered his traps and chisel by the lake. I love that I will spot him in the light of his headlight.
I love that we line up: one of us chiseling, checking the thickness of the ice, the other pulling a sled full of traps, bait, food. I love that the lake holds us.
I love that one of us sets the first trap of the year, and one of us sees the first flag flying.
I love that we drop what we’re doing at the time and run away.