A person cannot mistake the color of the water that surrounds Iceland. It is an icy blanket of chill-to-bone blue. A color so pure and clean you dare not touch it. Today, however, that is exactly what Freda Samuelsson and her father were doing.
Obadiah Samuelsson leaned over his ice auger, a device that could only be described as a corkscrew to drill through icy waters. The top of the ice auger had a Block-S shaped handle. Obadiah turned the crank. The auger’s screw slowly drove into the ice, pushing it aside. The more he twisted the handle, the deeper the auger went.
With a pop, the ice cracked through the surface and plunged into the water below. Mr. Samuelsson pulled up on the handle. Only a cold blue hole remained.
Freda knelt on the ice with her ice skimmer. The ice skimmer was a short wooden pole, about a half-meter in length, with a netted spoon on one end. She scooped chunks of slushy ice out of the hole and dumped them on top of the ice.
"You have to make sure the hole is completely clean," he said.
"That's what I'm doing, daddy."
“Alright dear, I just want to make sure you’re doing it right.”
Obadiah Samuelsson knelt on the ice next to his daughter. He motioned to her and she handed him the ice skimmer. He carefully scratched the skimmer’s spoon against the underside of the hole, clearing away any icy debris. Afterwards, he returned the ice skimmer to Freda. She finished cleaning the hole while he readied his fishing equipment.
“What is that?” asked Freda.
“It’s called a tip-up. I put the fishing line into the hole and then set up this other end. The fishing line is connected to one end of the tip-up. A red flag is connected to the other end.”
Mr. Samuelsson placed a minnow on the fishing hook and fed it into the hole. He positioned the three pieces of wood over the hole. Two pieces straddled the hole, keeping the tip-up in place. The middle piece of wood sat with the fishing line end over the center of the hole. The flag laid between the two outside pieces of wood, ready to signal a fish on the line.
After he was finished, he grabbed the ice auger and walked across the ice.
“Are you coming?”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re building some more fishing holes.”
She walked flatfooted along the ice behind her father, He dropped the gear about 20 meters from the first hole and began drilling another hole in the ice with the auger.
“Do you want to try?”
Freda nodded.
The ice auger was nearly as tall as the little red headed girl. Her father stood behind her, steadying the auger and providing some downward pressure.
“Grrrrr.”
“We’re almost there.”
Freda panted as she made the final turns on the handle. Finally, the ice auger broke through the surface of the ice-covered lake. She knelt down and cleaned the hole just as her father had instructed her. She was sure not to miss any slush. If she didn’t, the hole might freeze over completely.
“Let’s set up one more,” said her father after he put the second tip-up in place.
They walked further along the lake until Mr. Samuelsson found another spot to drop line. He offered Freda another chance to use the ice auger, but she declined. Turning the ice auger was hard work and her arms were tired.
“Let’s go back to the shanty,” said her father.
So they walked back to a small red shed that looked more like an outhouse than a building. The Samuelsson’s shanty, however, was one of many sitting along the frozen lake.
“How long until we get a bite?” asked Freda.
“It could be five minutes, it could be five hours.”
“Five hours?” she groaned.
“Don’t worry, we can catch perch while we wait.”
While the larger fish like pike and salmon swam in the deepest parts of the lake, smaller fish like perch resided closer to the shore. The shanty sat next to a clump of River Birch trees. The roots of the trees tangled as they stretched into the icy water below.
“Daddy! Look! There are fish waiting near the shore!”
“That’s exactly where I expected to find perch. They make their nests in the tangle of River Birch roots.”
“Why don’t we fish there?” asked Freda.
“If we can see the fish, the fish can see us. In the shanty, we’re protected under cover of darkness.”
As they entered the shanty, Freda could see what her father was talking about. The door slammed and the room was pitch black. Mr. Samuelsson fumbled in the dark and then flicked his lighter until it produced a small blue flame.
“Oops. I didn’t plan that very well, did I?”
Freda chuckled.
He lit the lantern and placed it upon a bent clothes hanger and hung it from the rafters in the shanty. It provided a steady yellow light that grew as Mr. Samuelsson fidgeted with the knob that controlled the wick.
“There we go,” he said.
He turned his attention to the center of the shanty. He used the ice auger to drill a hole. Instead of tip-ups, Mr. Samuelsson would be manning the fishing line himself. He baited the hook with a baby minnow and dropped it into the hole.
It wasn’t long at all until the line jiggled under the weight of a tugging fish.
“You’ve got a bite!”
“She’s kind of a small one,” said her father.
He slowly pulled on the fishing line, crossing one hand over the other until a tiny pink, orange, and silver fish popped out of the hole and onto the icy hard-pack.
He pressed the fish against the ice with one hand. He picked up the tiny fish and pulled the hook out of the fish’s mouth. Freda watched as the fish panted heavily. Without a thought, Mr. Samuelsson tossed the fish back into the hole. The fish disappeared in a splash.
“Why did you do that?”
“It would be a waste to keep him. He was too small to eat.”
Freda sat back down again and waited for another fish to bite.
Outside, the tiip-ups bobbed slightly in the chilly Arctic winds. Inside the shanty, Freda watched the single purple thread draw a line between her father’s hands and the edge of the ice hole. While she waited, she shared a bag of corn chips with her father, feeding them between his blonde beard and mustache so he could keep his hands on the fishing line.
“I think I’ve got another,” he said. He tugged on the line, feeding it hand-over-hand as he reeled it in.
Outside, one of the tip-ups clicked as the flag popped upright.
“You’ll have to get that,” ordered her father.
“I don’t know how to do it!” replied Freda.
“It’s time to learn.”
Freda scampered out to the tip-up, all boots and mittens and her long pink coat. She slid across the ice and pulled the tip-up aside. Quickly, she shed her mittens and grabbed the fishing line. Just as her father had done, Freda crossed her hands over each other as she reeled in the line.
“Hold on, dear!” called Mr. Samuelsson as he came to her aid.
As quickly as they had a bite, though, it was gone. The fishing l ine went slack. Freda reeled it in, only to find a half-eaten minnow hanging on the end of the hook.
“I lost it,” she plainly stated to her father.
“That’s all-right, dear. As they say, there are plenty of fish in the sea.”
For Freda, she’d have to wait for another day. Not another fish bit at their lines, either at the tip-ups or the purple fishing line inside the shanty.
Still, Freda enjoyed the time with her daddy. As they sat inside the shanty, They each sat on a bait bucket next to a small wooden table. Mr. Samuelson chopped potatoes, celery, and a piece of haddock into tiny chunks and dumped it into a bowl of broth and butter.
As they waited for the fish chowder to come to a boil, Freda and her father sat on the silent lake. Freda listened to the winds whipping across the side of the shanty. The winds also blew through a patch of River Birch along the shore.
“It’s getting colder,” said Freda.
“It sure is,” said her father. He looked at his watch. It was just before five p.m.
“It will be dark soon. We’d better pack our things.”
They each ate a hearty bowl of chowder and then went out into the cold. Freda gathered the tip-ups while Obadiah Samuelsson moved the gear inside the shanty to his Arctic Truck. After he cleaned everything out of the shanty, he tore the shanty into four pieces, one for each wall. He dragged each piece from the edge of the lake into the truck bed.
“I think that’s it,” said Freda.
“Just in time, too.”
With the sun past the horizon line, the sky was the darkest shade of red, nearing purple. Hurriedly, Freda and her father got into the Arctic Truck. Still, they had a long way to go on this night, traveling out to Ring Road and around the fjords to their home in Durvik.
Mr. Samuelsson turned the heater on full blast until the truck cabin was warm and cozy. Freda pulled off her big pink jacket and leaned her seat back. She used the jacket as a blanket and her mittens and hat as a pillow. Everything still smelled like the outdoors..
“It’s not my bed at home,” she thought to herself.
As she laid in the darkness, she remembered how her brother Stefan and her father always came home with a large salmon or haddock. Stefan would clean the fish in the kitchen sink and her mother would roast it in the oven. On good fishing days, Stefan brought home enough fish to pack in salt.
“I’m sorry we didn’t catch anything,” said Freda.
“Maybe next time,” replied her father.
The truck’s tires crunched through the snow, whirring gently. It gave Freda time to think about her father and how he said ‘next time’. That thought and the sound of crunching snow that accompanied the darkness sent her happily into sleep.
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