Fishing the Ice

Lessons from a simple pleasure.

By John Brandon

"Don’t forget the cooker, Dad."

My son Joshua was squinting at me, curious and full of questions. He was pulling wool trousers over thick socks, pretending not to struggle. "The cooker?" I asked.

"You know, that thing." He grinned, struggling to communicate. "The fish cooker. We might need it!"

Joshua was a sturdy 6-year-old, a miniature version of his dad with big hands and broad shoulders, a shock of blonde hair, and a big smile. Today, he was going to "fish the ice" for the first time, a new and exciting idea.

"Mom will cook the fish at home, son, but we have to catch them first." Joshua frowned and stared at me. Just one year ago, he had been diagnosed with central auditory processing disorder, which means he has trouble understanding new information and processes instructions slowly.

The wheels turned.

"Oh, I get it!" he yelled, standing with trousers pulled snug. "Mom cooks the fish! We don’t need to bring a cooker."

He raised his arms and pushed them through his sweatshirt sleeves. I looked outside. Skeletal trees partially blocked the view of multicolored icehouses just below Joshua’s bedroom window. The sun arched over the lake as a light snow fell, then billowed in lazy curls. The morning began like a slow, wide yawn.

We packed lightly. Hand auger, ice skimmer, salmon eggs. Peanut butter cookies and a thermos of steaming cocoa.

"When we get there, can we eat the cookies right away?" he asked.

The cookies—they helped Joshua focus when everything around him was moving too fast, they pumped extra fuel into his brain. Over time, he will learn how to cope with all the mixed-up sounds and garbled words, a cacophony of noisy confusion. Now, all we had to think about was how to get across a cold lake and find a place to fish.

"Dad? When we get to the spot, will we have to cut a hole in the ice? And how do you get the fish to bite—do you jig it?"

"Yes, son. We cut the hole, and then we put the hook down there to catch the fish. You can jig it if you want. Joshua, did your mom buy you a new hat? We need to stay warm."

"Mom said it would get cold." He grimaced and shivered, then started down the stairs to look for his winter coat and new hat.

We assembled all the gear, pulled on our boots, and stepped out into the frigid air. A short walk down the hill, and we were trekking onto the lake. Wind touched our faces and spoke in whispers.

"I’m going to fall through!" Joshua said, and we stopped for a moment. Sometimes, new sounds and experiences cause Joshua to panic slightly—at least until he can unravel and digest his surroundings.

"Son, the ice is at least 10 feet thick. See the trucks over there? None of them have fallen through, have they?

"But we are going to fall through, Dad!"

I smiled, shaking my head "no" and took Joshua’s hand. We decided to go back to the shore for a short rest. In the tranquility of winter, we drank hot cocoa and ate cookies, waiting for the wind—and Joshua’s fears—to dissipate.

Daylight opened her fragile hands as the sunrise gave way to midmorning calm. A distant crow screamed, the ice beckoned. Joshua was ready.

We headed for a spot on the north side of the lake, and plunked ourselves down in the lee of two or three icehouses. The auger bored down easily through the ice, opening a portal to the depths. Joshua immediately forgot about falling through. Thinking about panfish and hoping for walleyes, I slipped the salmon eggs onto Joshua’s hook. He dropped the line down, mesmerized.

"Jerk it like this," I told Joshua, motioning slightly. Fishing was the perfect panacea for his disorder, a simple act with simple results. Fishing rod, line, bait, hook—and fish. In the summer Joshua enjoyed the sport as though he were placing round pegs in round holes. Fishing had a symmetry and straight-as-an-arrow goal. He understood.

"I got one!" he yelled, feeling the anxious pull of a bluegill. It seemed a miracle that you could drop a line and hook a fish deep within the blackness of the lake. Joshua whooped and hollered, as his clumsy hands cranked his reel, and I helped him unhook the hand-length fish.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked.

A lesson began to form. Here was Joshua, struggling to decipher the world, and the fish, struggling up from the murky underworld. Both boy and fish had trouble interpreting their surroundings. I suggested that we put the too-small fish back in the water, and Joshua knew that it was the right thing to do. Somehow, it made sense—the bluegill had a potential that had not been fully developed.

Joshua needed time to learn about auditory processing. My wife, Rebecca, has overcome her own processing disorder. She still struggles to understand and pronounce words like parmesan and occasionally hears me say grille instead of girl. How she processes the words that flow into her brain is a complex mystery, one that scientists will probably never understand. The circuitry will always be slightly disconnected.

Joshua will also learn the technique of listening to patterns, patiently deciphering the words, and slowly connecting the dots of language so that he can communicate at a more advanced level.

My daughter Hannah has also had to retrain her mind for auditory processing. When she first started school, she used some words only her parents understood, and we could converse with her in this native tongue. Now in second grade, she speaks with more eloquence than many others her age.

"Can we go home now?" Joshua asked, teeth chattering. A half-hour of fishing had become a lesson in understanding my son. In some ways, his auditory processing disorder is the very thing that makes him unique, an imprint from a master workman who gives each of us at least one genetic challenge to overcome in life. It had taught me to speak more slowly to Joshua, to wait for him to connect.

We packed up, threw snow into our ice hole, and waved goodbye to the fish. The walk back was quicker and easier. Joshua had put the pieces together. You walk across the lake, carve out your fishing hole, drop your line. The ice below your feet is nothing more than a passageway, a thick coating on the water that makes winter fishing possible.

Joshua lifted his feet over the snowdrifts, marching like Peter chasing the wolf, and enjoying the hike. I followed him, forming an idea. Ice fishing is about shared experiences, about battling the elements of winter and still enjoying a sport. It’s about overcoming obstacles.

When nothing quite settles my nerves, ice fishing provides a mechanism. It is a simple activity that can open the channels to understanding. When we go, I can spend time listening to my son—really listening.

That evening, we ate pork chops and mashed potatoes for dinner, Rebecca brewed more hot cocoa, and we laughed—belly laughed—about fishing the ice. We talked about the cooker, and about sending a tiny bluegill back to freedom. And Joshua understood.

John Brandon is a free-lance writer and book author who lives in Buffalo.