Ice Fishing

“Hey son want to hear a joke?” I ask my him. He’s young, and innocent. Looking up at me through the steam of his breath in the cold. We’re on our yearly ice fishing trip in Alberta. You rent a space, they drop a small portable shack on top and drill a hole.

“Sure, dad”. He’s more focused on what’s going on under the ice, than me. It’ll be tough to get a laugh out of him.

“Do you know how to catch a polar bear?”

“No…” My sons now 13, so I try my first ‘dirty’ joke on him. I’m sure to get something out of him.

“Well, you see. They’re very elusive. But there’s one sure thing as to how to catch them.”

“What is it?” Now I’ve got him. He’s already forgotten it’s a joke.

“First you drill a hole in a thick sheet of ice, kind of like this here but much bigger. Then you lay down a trail of peas leading up to the hole.”

“Polar bears eat peas?”

“They love them.” His face is struck with boyish curiosity. “So now you have a trail of peas leading up to the hole, you just wait. Sure enough a bear will come along and follow the trail up until the hole….”

“Then what happens?”

“When the bear goes to take a pea, you kick him in the ice hole!” I begin to belt my laughter after holding it in the duration of the story. He chuckles, but then rolls his eyes.

“That’s stupid, Dad.” It was the best one I could think of. He turns his attention back to the hole in the ice and the fishing rod in his hand. “How many will we catch today?”

“Hopefully a couple, I’m hungry.” Inside the shack is also a woodfired stove. Keeping us warm as well as boiling me a kettle right now. It begins to scream. I walk over and toss some more pre-cut logs in the stove. Take the kettle off. I pour it into my metal mug.

“Can I have some, dad?”

“Coffee? You sure?”

“I’m growing up! I’d like to try it.”

“Alright…no guarantees you’ll like it.” It’s cowboy style. Grounds straight into the water. Let them steep together for a bit and mix them around. If he likes this, I’ll streak across the frozen lake. I sit down next to him with the two mugs, handing him one. One sip, and it’s all over the ground. He spits it out before he can even swallow.

“That’s terrible!”

“Told ya.” He wipes his mouth and shivers run down his back. I sip my coffee with the same instint to spit it out, but at least I’m used to the flavor.

The rod to the fishing line jerks down. My son looks at me. “Reel it in!” I shout. He starts reeling it in, faster and faster and right through the ice comes out a foot and a half long perch fish. It flops around on the ice. I grab it and pull the hook out. “Nice catch son!” I pat him on the back and we lay the fish on the small table in the shack. “Go bait another, I’ll get to fileting this”. I brought a big knife and cutting board.

“Wait,” he springs up, “don’t we usually throw it back?”

“Well aren’t you hungry?”

“Yeah but…we have some granola bars.”

“Come on—cooking this rustic, you’ll love it.”

“I don’t know dad…” He’s basically pleading. I set my knife back down.

“Alright…”

…

We’re sitting across from each other at the small wooden table. Eating our dry granola bars in the cold. “How’s mom doing?” I ask him.

“Good. Her and…Steven are getting married soon”

“Wow that’s great.” Never got an invite…

“Yeah, guess so.”

“Is it weird having someone in the house all the time, that’s different I mean?”

“No I guess we’ve gotten used to each other. When can I move back in with you Dad?”

“Not for a while son…see your mom got full custody because my job wasn’t…fit for raising you I guess. So we’ll have to savor our times like these together.” I’m a travelling salesman. Been on the road my entire life.

“Oh…right. I like fishing. Even if it’s cold.”

“Good…I’m glad.” We share a look, a warm smile in this cold shack. As I share that look with him, his image fades away in my head.

I can hardly remember what he looks now. It’s been about 4 years since his passing. He and his mother were in a car accident. He was immediately rushed to intensive care, put on life support. But never made it through the night. She made it through without hardly a scratch. It was never her fault, what happened. The other driver was texting and crossed over the yellow, she panicked swerved and ended upside down in a ditch off the road. I still…can’t help but feel somewhat angry at her. When someone you love, dies, you look for a reason why. Wondering if there is some way you could figure out how it could have happened, and someone is always at fault. That’s why I still come back to this shack. It’s still as cold as ever, but without my son there’s no form of warmth. Inside me or out. I think on what happened a lot in these tiny 4 walls. I don’t know why I come back every year. As my breath freezes in front of me, I hope to see him under my nose shivering in his puffer jacket. Instead I stare into that hole in the ground. So perfectly round. I hate it.

His image haunts me. I see him there with the fishing rod. Waiting for a bite. Smiling as I throw logs on the fire. Then with a shake of my head he’s gone. How can I ever live again, without the thing I love most? When you create something that lives, breathes and you care for over 13 years…. there’s no such thing as an easy goodbye. I barely see my ex-wife since the accident. Her and Steven never got married. She was institutionalized after a couple of mental breakdowns. Even threatened her own life with a bottle of pills. I still feel numb from it all. No sadness. No anger. Just, befuddlement. Confusion. Since he’s been gone I’ve had no direction…no North Star.

I’ll sit here and wait for a bite. It’s why I came anyways. But like always, I get distracted with my brandy and stare off as the fire burns away. Suddenly, there’s a tug. I reel it in. Comes up and out of the hole like a cannon. Sizeable bluegill. I slap it down on the table then look back. My son, no longer there closing his eyes. Just the cold empty ice shack. I pick the knife up from the table. Take a deep breath, then chop it’s head off.