No Change

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Some things never change. Some things will never change. Some things will remain the same forever.

I realize I just wrote the same thing about some things only in three different ways.

Some days I get tired of all the imprecise things in this world and on those days I find myself searching for an absolute to satisfy me. Sometimes I wish I could write that all things will change.

But I can’t.

Some things won’t.

Some things resist, some things endure and some things flat out defy my desires.

This stubborn refusal of some things toward change is sometimes the only absolute that exists.

OK, I admit, I was still a tad bit drinky-winky, only momentarily suffering a fit of strange sobriety when I wrote that unqualified and curious journal passage above. Still, I think there’s an overt poetic truth to it.

You see, when I penned those words I was once again sitting in a small wooden hut on a giant frozen lake in the tribal land of the honorable Ojibwe. I was joined by three trusted companions, each of whom made their own winter’s journey to meet me at our annual rendezvous on ice.

Quickly, after the common greetings and typical boasting of men had subsided, we had settled down in our respective corners of the hut and conformed to our now familiar ritual of drinking beer, silent contemplation and personal search for the illusive walleye.

It comes to mind that ice fishing is an intensely lonely obsession. Although companionship is valued to some degree, each individual angler is forced to conserve energy and the conversation is generally limited to primitive grunts and pointed observations which directly impact the focus of the hunt.

Separated and alone with my thoughts as I was, 3 miles from shore and civilization, at some uncertain point all I had to console me was the muted sound of my own heartbeat, the hiss of propane lanterns, and the constant rumble of shifting ice below my feet.

There on the slick surface, my thoughts naturally skated toward comparing the vague stubbornness of some things with the lethargic futility of ice fishing.

Early Sunday morning, before the sun rose, while my augered-out hole showed the lake water still colored a bottomless black, a deep boom in the ice emerged at an unknown distance from our location. As a massive crack in the ice twisted and turned its loud progress towards us, we temporarily called off our comm-out procedures and all eyes met in the middle as we wordlessly contemplated our fate together.

Even with a surface layer of ice at 18 to 24 inches thick, it's comforting to know that the cold water below still maintains its fluid dynamics. A heavy truck driving across the surface from miles away could push a growing wave underneath which eventually would cause the ice to heave. Winter anglers are familiar with this effect of changing ice formations and learn to casually disregard the constant boom and crunch of the ice all around them.

But this time the crack came right at us. There was an odd echo to it, instantly merging the frightening sound of a meandering lightning bolt with that of a run-away freight train.

The crack ran along a line very near us, lifting our hut as it approached and giving us all a rude shake as it passed. Being the selfish persons we are, each of the trusted companions awoke to check the status of their own possessions, beer, fishing lines, and tackle boxes, before finally speaking out.

“Whoa!” groaned companion number One.

“That was special,” added companion Two dryly.

“Are our trucks still out there?” companion Three inquired.

Companion Two stood up and brushed the frost off the inside of the plastic window with his hand, peeking outside to inspect the potential damage before quickly sitting back down.

“Yeah,” he replied nonchalantly, “we’re good.”

I nodded, silently confirming that in spite of a painful hangover we were still good from my position as well.

Companion One reached down to his portable fish finder which he had thrust down a nearby hole and punched a few noisy buttons on the untrustworthy device. All eyes were on him as he leaned back on his bench and crunched his mouth down in disbelief.

“Damn,” said One, “this thing says we went from 21 to 22 feet.”

Rattle reels instantly chimed in as each of us adjusted our lines for the new depth report.

Seeing the ice was broken and we were already wet with urgent conversation, Companion Three decided to agitate the waters further with a comment of earlier concern.

“You know,” Three began, “I thought about it but I still can’t figure it out.”

One, Two and I all nervously looked at each other, reluctantly acknowledging that our silence was now over.

“Why?” Three asked. “Why did he just take MY tackle box?”

“That’s a good question,” replied One. “I mean, I left my tackle and my poles out here, too. If the guy needed tackle, why didn’t he want an extra pole or two?”

“He probably just grabbed what he could hold,” summarized number Two.

“Yeah,” I said. “He was obviously drunk, too, since he didn’t even steal our beer.”

We all agreed a thief had entered our hut sometime between 8 the night before and 2 in the morning while we were leisurely engaged at the Twin Pines bar near the lake. We usually took everything with us when we left the hut but that night we had rushed to the bar on an urgent whim and errantly concluded that no fool would be foolish enough to suffer the sub-zero temperature on the lake that night to steal us blind. Upon returning early that morning, some of our number finding the diversion to Twin Pines more beneficial than others, Companion Number Three discovered his prized tackle box was missing.

“Hard to believe, though,” continued One, “why would a guy come all the way out here, 3 miles out on a frozen lake, just to steal one lousy tackle box?”

“You can’t trust anybody and crime happens everywhere, man,” concluded number Two.

“I fuckin’ told you,” Three adamantly declared.

One, Two and I smiled at each other and nodded approvingly.

Ever since our first annual ice fishing event many moons ago, the phrase “I fuckin’ told you” had earned a special place in our conversations. When this particular admonishment was brandished on ice, we knew that the typical politeness of bland human interaction had been officially washed from our collective beings. The unique conditions of men commonly trapped on a deserted frozen lake had taken its full effect. It was an indication that teamwork had suddenly been replaced by individual egos and the selfishness of human survival was now of primary interest. When that annoying phrase was uttered, we were not considering the concerns of others but truly speaking our unvarnished thoughts at that precise moment.

“I fuckin’ told you,” Three said, “we are at 2 point 7 miles out, not 3. I checked it.”

Companion One considered that trivial fact then calmly replied.

“I don’t think that’s a big difference,” he said. “It was 5 below last night, 20 below with the wind chill. Three-tenths of a mile wouldn’t have stopped this guy; he just wanted to steal something.”

“Well, you all know why he took MY box,” Three said defiantly.

Two looked at me and grinned, “No … we don’t. Why don’t you tell us?”

“You know why!” Three said while standing up. “I had the red worm with the propeller in that box. You know how powerful that lure was. That thief took one look at that and knew he had to have it!”

“Oh, geez,” sighed One.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, I’m serious,” replied Three aggressively. “I saw you guys admiring that one. You can’t deny that was a very attractive lure.”

Two stood up, turned to One and said, “I don’t have a red worm with a propeller in my tackle box. One, have you ever in your life had a red worm with a propeller? Who the hell would use a red worm with a propeller for ice fishing and where the hell did that come from anyway? Everybody knows the Swedish Pimple is the lure of choice this time of year.”

Companion One first shook his head that he didn’t own a red worm with propeller then arose from his bench and smiled, nodding in agreement with number Two.

I lighted a ciggy and stood up too, grabbing my coffee cup from the top of the card table placed in the middle of the hut.

“Honestly, I’ve never seen such an ugly lure and I doubt any self-respecting Ojibwe would want it. You know, in accordance with the Treaty of 1837, they are allowed to net their fish, anyway. Besides,” I added, “in my tackle box I have a brand new red and black Wally Diver that is probably worth more than everything you had mangled together in that old box of yours, number Three.”

“Bullshit!” huffed Three.

We all stood in front of our corners, each pondering the next move around the card table.

“From what I’ve seen,” number One went on, “you never caught a walleye with that thing. Come to think of it, you’ve never even caught anything up here except some puny perch … not counting Minnesota Sally’s phone number at the bar, of course.”

Number Three ignored the bait and turned to the plastic window, squinting his eyes to spy on another hut about a half mile off in the frosty white distance.

“I don’t think it was no Ojibwe,” Three said grimly. “I’ll bet it was one of those guys in that hut over there. They probably saw us leave and snuck in here, found the red worm with propeller and then took off with it. I think I’ll go back to Twin Pines tonight and check on those guys with Dumb Bobby.”

“Dumb Bobby wouldn’t know. He’s the worst bartender I’ve ever seen,” said Two.

“Yeah,” laughed number One, “Dumb Bobby can’t even remember your name, number Two.”

“Well,” Three whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “if I go back in there and hear about somebody catching walleye with a red worm and propeller, then I’ll know who stole it.”

The wind gusted and blew powdery snow outside, temporarily blinding Companion Three’s view and pushing a blast of chilled air up from the ice holes through the squared cut-outs in the floor of the hut.

“Only one problem with that clue, professor,” I said taking a long drag from my ciggy.

“What’s that?” asked Three.

“I fuckin’ told you,” I replied with an exhaust of smoke. “There ain’t no fish in this lake.”

Even Companion Three had to smile at that comment.

“Hmm, I don’t know about that,” laughed One, pointing to the squat fishing pole behind number Three. “But, Three, you might want to check on that one there.”

We all suddenly focused on Three’s pole dancing lightly, quietly over his hole. The tip of the pole shivered then bounced with subtle temptation.

Number Two gushed with excitement, “It must be the 5 o’clock rush! Is that a Pimple?”

“Nah,” answered Three quickly, “orange jig with a shiner head at 15 feet.”

We returned immediately to our corners and retreated to our silent pursuits, One with a cautious eye on the shifting and dishonest fish finder, Two with a deft finger caressing his line, Three with a suspicious glance outside the frozen plastic window.

I looked at my motionless pole and dropped my still burning ciggy into an empty beer can as the deep echo of rumbling surface ice popped and churned miles from our hut.

With satisfying content, I thought, “I hope nothing ever changes.”

Cheers,

Mb