Dennis Anderson: Day on Chisago ice points toward summer

By recent measure, Monday -- President's Day -- was warm, and at its end a cleaning board, a sharp knife and a mess of sunnies and crappies lay splayed on the tailgate of my pickup. This was beneath a yard light that held our barn in its soft glow, and alongside the barn were the pickup, the fish and me.

The boys by then had booked it for the house, pulled off their boots, coats and bibs, eaten, and were well now headed for bed, with the next morning demanding a return to school. Which was fair enough: I don't mind cleaning fish alone, particularly after a good day on the ice and most particularly while thinking about summer days ahead.

The 2 feet or more of ice we drilled through Monday suggested summer is still a ways off. But already the days are longer and the sun's angle gains a few degrees weekly. Completing this all-is-not-lost trifecta, the Mississippi near Red Wing flows free and largely open, and soon everywhere the state's lakes and rivers will return the reflections of birds. And summer.

We hadn't ventured far north Monday, just to Chisago City, where our choice of lakes -- Green, Chisago, North or South Center -- lay before us like specials on a noontime menu. We needed some waxies and bought them before drawing a bead toward the south end of Chisago Lake. There the older boy fired up the auger while the younger one and his friend, Max Kelley, rummaged through a ragtag bunch of small jigs, hoping to select one that would prove irresistible.

En route north, the boys had held quite a gabfest, planning their annual trip to Grandpa's cabin on the Whitefish Chain. The cabin is small, and usually the boys, along with Max and his older brother, Jack, stay there alone, while my wife and I huddle mere yards away in our pickup camper, the truck and cabin tethered by electrical cords, tendrils of modern life.

At the cabin the boys rise before the sun, wanting to be on the water at light's first blush. When they were younger this was accomplished in a shipwreck of an old aluminum boat with an electric trolling motor. Now they motor away in Dad's sleeker craft, looking every bit the professionals they consider themselves to be, and eying warily other anglers who might be on the lake so early, stealing their water.

Bass are the prey species here. The boys will chuck, flip and pitch baits until mid-morning, then return to the cabin for French toast or pancakes, their tall fish tales told over a small table framed by paned glass.

"Gotta go where the fish are," the younger boy said.

A brisk wind billowed across the frozen lake. But the day remained warm, or warmish. For a while the boys hooked one fish after another, culling those that were too small and laying the rest out on the ice like playing cards. This wasn't summer fishing with its walleyes in the live well, trout in the riffles and bucketmouths smacking Scum Frogs cast to lily pads. But the longer day and the higher angle of sun, in contrast to the thick ice beneath us, suggested a bridging season was underway, and while we could not yet see the other side, we could imagine it.

Some people prefer to behead and scale panfish before laying them in a skillet of hot butter. I prefer to fillet them, and was well into cleaning the day's catch Monday before my hands grew cold in the night.

I had the option of finishing the job indoors. But the truck's windows were down and from its CD player Ian Tyson sang of cowboys, horses and broken hearts. Two out of three of these suggested latigos, boots, dust, open water. And warmer days.

Above, the yard light held fast against the dark night.