Reporter tackles ice fishing

When people ask me why I moved to Montana from Ohio, I just say that it was a calling.

I always knew I’d end up here in Lake County.

The hustle and bustle of the city was exhausting, and for years I’d wanted a change.

I didn’t, however, know that I’d find myself on a frozen Flathead Lake one morning, peeking into a hole as I sat, perched over to see what was going on.

Last week I accompanied Richard “The Macman” Zimmer on one of his ice fishing outings.

Zimmer is owner of the 30-year-old Zimmer Tackle, located at 35933 Carlyle Lane in Pablo.

Growing up, fishing wasn’t fun for me. Everytime I’ve shared my disgust at the thought of fishing, people have told me it’s because I never caught anything.

Holy mackerel, were they right.

Going to a spot off Montana Highway 35, I followed Zimmer as he scaled down a steep and icy hill, down to the frozen shoreline where he’d search the day for schools of perch, while I willfully followed.

Running circles around us was Zimmer’s dog, Molly.

She’d run, sure-footed, while Zimmer walked, pulling a sled full of fishing gear, down this hill that is pure ice, seamlessly stepping onto the frozen lake.

“We’re going out about 200 yards,” Zimmer said, effortlessly walking while I slid around, doing a penguin waddle.

“Sounds good. I’ll count this as my cardio for today,” I said, laughing, which came out more like a strained cough.

Zimmer picked a spot where he began to drill holes for us to try our luck.

“How deep is the ice,” I asked, not wanting to appear too nervous. The ice from U.S. Highway 93 has disappeared over the last couple of weeks, so surely this ice isn’t that thick, I thought.

“It’s about… 12 inches,” he said, adding that if a person could get a car down the hill to the shore, a vehicle could be driven on the ice.

After drilling a couple of holes, while Molly ran happily around, Zimmer got us situated, setting up several fishing poles.

We sat on the edge of the sled, which also makes for a shelter.

Several minutes later, Zimmer went outside, while I manned a fishing pole for each of us.

Coming back to check on me every so often, Zimmer noted that when you’re fishing, it’s usually pretty quiet.

The wind had chosen to pick up in the hours leading up to our departure earlier that morning, and every so often the sound of the wind rolling toward us broke the relative silence.

Clear laughing was heard, sounding close, but it was another group of fishermen not quite a football field away.

“I’ve learned that people sound closer than they are,” he said, laughing.

While Zimmer was out looking for perch in other areas, I got as comfortable as possible, trying to stretch out my legs while staying hunched over the ice, waiting for a fish to come.

Enclosed in the shelter, a light green hue illuminated inside. Peering down, I saw countless little striped fish that looked similar to the fish I dissected in high school.

Finally, randomly, as I “jigged” the pole, it happened.

A tiny little fish latched onto the bait.

Suddenly all the things my dad told me some 20 years earlier popped back into my head.

I pulled back on the fishing pole, then reeled it in so much. Then I pulled again, bringing the fish closer to the surface.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Once I got the fish, no more than a couple inches in length, out of the water, I called my fishing mentor.

“Hey!” I yelled out to Zimmer. “I caught one!”

Walking steadily over the ice over to me from where he found some schools of fish, he took my fish off the hook.

“You got the first catch of the day,” he said while he laughed.

There are four things that matter when fishing, Zimmer explained.

“Who catches the first fish, who catches the most fish, who catches the biggest fish and who catches the last fish,” he shared.

Over the next several hours, Zimmer zigzagged around nearby, checking on his lines while Molly faithfully followed, making herself at home on the ice.

All the while, I’d sit around, staring down into the holes, taking notes about my adventure in my reporter’s notebook, moving at Zimmer’s suggestion every couple of hours.

It wasn’t until well after noon that I got several fish in a row.

Rather than call Zimmer over to me when he’d be about 20 yards or so away, tending to his own lines, I realized something.

I had to take charge of the situation if I was going to keep fishing. I had to take life by the gills and take these fish off the line myself. I was here for the experience, after all.

He looked relaxed on his makeshift chair that was a bucket, while the sun was peeking out through the clouds.

I turned back to the fish, bouncing around the ice, still hooked.

Wearing my thick wool mittens that I got for Christmas, I gently made contact with the fish.

Of course, it starting flopping violently and I yelped, but I regained composure and eased the hook out of the fish’s mouth.

Zimmer saw and came over, just in time for us to realize that I somehow got the hook and my mitten tangled.

Following several successful captures, I’m proud to share that I was taking fish off the hooks with my bare hands by the end of the day.

Next time, I’ll bait my hook. The fact I went fishing and touched a slimy fish (or seven) is a great start for me.

Between the two of us, Zimmer and I caught 25 fish.

Calling it a day after a full eight hours out on the ice, we trekked back to the shore, only to scale back up to our cars while Molly made it look easy.

It wasn’t until I was almost home that I realized how excited I was, smiling ear-to-ear and giddy about fishing.

Everyone was right all those years: Fishing is a lot of fun when you manage to catch some fish.

Together we split the four things that matter when fishing.

I caught the first fish of the day, Zimmer caught the most fish and the biggest fish, and I caught the last fish.

Now that a successful fishing trip is crossed off my Montana bucket list, I need to tackle cooking.