eric: I now like ice fishing.

The first time I went ice fishing I fell in a hole. As a little kid with a little foot I was able to fall in the little hole. It was cold and miserable, and on top of all that I don't remember catching anything resembling a fish. Maybe I caught a cold. Who knows? That was about twenty-five years ago. I can now say that my opinion on the activity has changed.

A little more than nine miles round trip.

My change of heart happened three weeks ago. Up for something out the ordinary, we (Angie, Kurt, Neal, and myself) decided to go ice fishing. The fabled location was a ways away. Kurt and Neal had made an attempt to find the spot an earlier weekend with no luck. In preparation for this attempt I asked the other high school teacher how to get there. She sketched out a quick map on my whiteboard. "Okay, got it," I said. Armed with this knowledge we now felt ready to go. We discussed our plan, and Kurt had heard it was shorter to go over the hill, we set out.

Kurt shoulda worn cleats. Oh well. Next time.

We left the BIA in the early afternoon. The sun was out, blasting the way. As our journey up the hill started I was instantly pleased with my last minute decision to wear my ice cleats. Angie had hers on as well. Neal and Kurt opted to venture forth without. What had appeared as nice soft snow turned out to be nice soft snow, except under that layer was a much trickier layer of ice. The nice soft snow did nothing but make the ice even more slippery. Combined with the steep incline of the hill and the sled carrying our fishing gear, the hike up the hill took a long time. About half way up, after both Neal and Kurt had stumbled and fallen a number of times apiece, the clouds rolled in. The wisdom of our route was in question. But we were invested in the adventure by this time. There would be no turning around.

Slightly reminiscent of an arctic exploratory team

As we neared the summit, Angie and I were out in front. We climbed the last bit and as we came even with the top of the hill we came face to face with a herd of musk ox. Probably fifty adults and a number of juveniles stood no more than one hundred feet from us. The wind had been coming from the north - they had not been able to smell us approach. We dropped to the ground, whispering to Neal and Kurt to hurry up. Before they made it up to us the herd figured us out and began moving away to stage their defensive positions. Musk ox, being gigantic animals, are not the bravest of creatures. I have heard that they will charge, but most of the time all I've seen them do is line up, shoulder to shoulder in a display of power. They are mighty intimidating, but after sizing us up for a while and watching us slowly get closer they must have recognized our true power. I am still trying to figure out what our true power was, but they took off to the North. We continued to follow their retreat as it was in the direction of our fishing spot.

Muskox.

Muskox. Chillin'.

Rare blue sky moments are fantastic.

The hill we were crossing, actually the core of an ancient volcano, rises maybe one thousand feet above the village. The top is a large flat area offering views in all directions. From there we could just barely make out where we were going. It was a long ways away without a very clear line down. We continued along the ridge looking for the easiest way down. After deciding that using the sled to bomb the hill was probably not the best idea we opted for sliding down on our feet and butts. Slower than sledding (we ghost rode that whip), it was much more fun that climbing the hill. Our descent took us to about one hundred feet above the sea – to the edge of a rocky cliff that falls to meet the shore. We would have to walk along the cliff until we found a drainage chute to descend. A little further on we came across a baby musk ox, completely alone. Angie and I left Neal and Kurt at this point and we descended down a chute to the ocean below. Kurt and Neal got much closer to the baby than I thought would have been possible. Kind of a bummer to miss that. Oh well.

The baby I missed.

But I did get first tracks in the backcountry.

We arrived at the old fishing hole as two others were packing up to return to the village. They'd had luck catching fish so we decided to get to work. The spot we were at was on sea ice near the shore where a stream draining the hills we'd been climbing on emptied into the ocean. This assured that open water was available below the sea ice and fisherpeople before us has chipped out holes to catch the fish.

You just watch for a fish - then yank!

There are two primary methods to catching fish where we were. Dip netting and jigging. Nets may be the fastest method but we didn't have one. The traditional manaq would have to do. Basically what you have is a dowel with some fishing line connected to a hook. The most basic fishing kit ever. I actually felt overburdened with a reel on the ice fishing rod that I'd borrowed from another teacher. No matter, the fish were there. In a matter of speaking they were biting, but that's not completely accurate. The method we used involves laying on the ice, sticking your face in the hole to block out the light so that you can see into the water. I didn't believe that I would see anything at first, but as my eyes adjusted I was overwhelmed at the numbers of fish swirling about under the surface. At this point all you do is lower you naked hook into the water, wait for a fish to approach it, and yank - snagging the fish through the lower jaw. It was unbelievable. We caught fish after fish like this. Kurt had advised us to be content with the smaller guys - they fry up the best. With this we were completely content pulling whatever fish came our way up and out of the water. In about half an hour we'd caught about sixty fish between the four of us using three rods. That's a little less that one fish per minute per person. It was awesome.

One of sixty.

I know it looks ridiculous.

Our catch.

The walk back, however, was not so great. After realizing that walking over ice covered mountains was more work than walking on ice covered oceans, we decided to take the coastal route back. Longer? Maybe. Windier? Absolutely. But flatter and ultimately probably faster. Our journey concluded, arriving wind- and sunburned, starving, and tired, about six hours later after covering a total of about nine and a half miles. Quite the day.

Epilogue:

We were too tired and hungry the night we returned to eat the fish we’d caught. After giving away approximately half of the fish, we quickly cleaned them and put then in the refrigerator for the next night.

Filling two frying pans with oil we fried the little guys up. Absolutely delicious.